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Book, ^Cf 4._ 



HISTORY 

OF THE 

ENGLISH STAGE. 

INCLUDING THE 

LIVES, CHARACTERS AND AMOURS 

OF THE MOST EMINENT 

ACTORS AND ACTRESSES. 

WITH 

INSTRUCTIONS FOR PUBLIC SPEAKING; 



THE ACTION AND UTTERANCE OP THE BAR, STAGE AND 
PULPIT ARE DISTINCTLY CONSIDERED. 

BY THOMAS BETTERTON. 

REVISED, WITH ADDITIONAL NOTES, BY CHARLES L. COLBS. 



BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY WILLIAM S. & HENRY SPEAR. 

1914. 



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INTRODUCTION. 



THE Drama did not so much as grow into any 
form in England, till the reign of Henry VIII. It 
met, indeed, with some kind of establishment in the 
feign of Queen Elizabeth ; but nourished in that of 
King James I. Arts were cultivated, till the be- 
ginning of our intestine broils in the reign of King 
Charles I. when the Dramatic Muse was banished, 
and all the * degraded. 

The design of this Work is to give a faithful ac- 
count of the Stage and its progress ; and to convey 
the names of some of our most eminent players, to 
a little longer date, than nature has given their 

bodies. 

i 

But, before we descend to particulars, let us, 
with a noble Peer, take a general view of that peri- 
od when monarchy was restored ; under which ad- 
ministration the Drama was raised to its highest 
degree of perfection. 

" I behold (says Lord Lansdown) a King, with 
a guilty nation at his feet, raising his enemies from 
the ground, taking them by the hand as if they had 
never offended — Sour hypocritical zeal and grim- 
ace turned, as by enchantment, all at once into 



4 INTRODUCTION. 

good humour and open-hearted cheerfulness — Ma- 
jesty and splendour in the court, decency and disci- 
pline in the church, dignity and condescension in 
the nobility, plenty and hospitality in the country, 
opulence in the city, good nature and good man- 
ners amongst all ranks and conditions of men; 
trade flourishing, navigation extended, manufactures 
improved, arts and sciences encouraged, wit abound- 
ing, the Muses restored, the gown respected ; and 
above all, liberty, real liberty secured to perpetui- 
ty? by that great bulwark the Habeas Corpus Act. 
This is the scene which then presented itself, and 
I look back with pleasure upon it."* 

The stage having always been accounted a most 
rational and instructive entertainment, has there- 
fore met with all proper encouragement in the wisest 
governments, and been supported by the wisest 
men. The English Theatre has risen for a series 
of many years under the patronage of Princes, and 
appeared in greater lustre than any other ; and, 
what seems still more extraordinary, is, that some 
of the most eminent writers in the Dramatic way, 
have been themselves players ; of which Shake- 
speare and Otway are immortal instances. 

I believe, no nation in the world can boast of 
having produced so many excellent writers for the 
Stage, nor so many inimitable performers as our 

* See Lord Lausdown's letter to the author of Remarks, &c. 
AY32. 4to. page 20, 



INTRODUCTION. 5 

own. The memory of Mr. Betterton, Mr. Booth, 
Mr. Wilks, Miss Barry, Miss Bracegirdle, and 
Miss Oldfield's performances are still fresh among 
ns ; and as their merit rendered them universally 
admired, their loss is now as universally lamented. 

But, here it ought to be observed, that as wit, 
good sense, and politeness were absolutely necessa- 
ry to support the character and dignity of the scene, 
it was always thought proper to entrust the manage- 
ment of the Theatre, to persons who were supposed 
to be justly qualified to judge of all performances 
fit to be introduced in that place ; that works of ge- 
nius might meet with suitable encouragement, and 
dullness and immorality be effectually excluded. 

Mr. Betterton long had the Stage under his di- 
rection ; and he, undoubtedly, wanted no abilities 
to distinguish merit ; nor have I ever heard that he 
wanted inclination to reward it. And as eminent 
as he was allowed to be, yet he thought it advisea- 
ble, and no way unworthy of him, to join with those 
who were professed players. And of late years 
Mr. Booth, Mr. Wilks, and Mr. Gibber, as they 
were all eminent in their professions as actors ; their 
own interest, as well as the honor of the Stage, 
made them industrious to support it in full credit. 
The two former of these patentees are dead ; and 
so is that envy which pursued them in their lives. 
We have now no memory for their failings, and on- 
ly retain the pleasing remembrance of their various 
excellences. 



6 INTRODUCTION. 

From these general observations then, we may 
perceive, that it hath been always thought essential 
to the preservation of the Stage, and the encourage- 
ment of authors, to have the management of the 
Theatre committed to proper persons, who had giv- 
en some public proof of their capacity to judge, what 
would be most instructive or agreeable to the taste 
of an English audience ; as will, in the course of 
this undertaking, be fully shown. 



HISTORY 



ENGLISH STAGE 



CHAP. I. 

Of the Duke of York's Company, under Sir Wil- 
liam D'Avenant, 166S; and the union between 
the King's and Duke's Company, 1683. 

WE shall begin these Memoirs of players, with 
an account of our English Rocius, Mr. Thomas 
Betterton, whom we may suppose in his own par- 
ticular person, on a foot with that illustrious Ro- 
man ; especially when we consider that Mr. Bet- 
terton was excellent both in Tragedy and Comedy ; 
whereas, by all we can discover, Roscius was fa- 
mous for Comedy only. 



8 THE HISTORY OF 

As to his descent, lie was the son of Mr. Thom- 
as Betterton, born in Tothill Street, Westminster, 
in the year 1637. He had a very good education, 
and when he was come to years sufficient, by his 
own choice, his father put him to Mr. Rhodes, a 
Bookseller at Charing Cross ; Mr. Edward Kyn- 
aston was fellow- apprentice with him. 

I must not here pass by Mr. Betterton' s loyalty 
and courage; who, though but a mere stripling, 
went a volunteer into the King's service, as Mr. 
Hart, Mr. Smith and Mr. Mohun had done before 
him. They were all four engaged at the battle of 
Edge-Hill, in Warwickshire ; and Mr. Mohun so 
remarkably signalized himself in this engagement, 
that the Major, who commanded our young Caval- 
iers, being shot, his commission was given to him. 

After the murder of the King, these gentlemen all 
became players 5 but what more immediately brought 
Mr. Betterton and Mr. Kynaston upon the Stage, 
was their master's having, formerly, been Ward- 
robe-keeper to the King's company of Comedians in 
Black-Friars. And upon the march of General 
Monck and his army, from Scotland to London, in 
the year 1659, Mr. Rhodes obtained from the pow- 
ers then in being, a licence to set up a company of 
players in the Cockpit in Drury Lane, and soon 
made it complete ; his two apprentices, Betterton for 
men's parts, and Kynaston for women's, being the 
head of them. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 9 

Mr. Iktterton, though now bat twenty-two years 
of age, acquired very great applause by his per- 
formances in The Loyal Subject, The Wild Goose 
Chase, The Spanish Curate, and several other 
plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. But while our 
young actor was thus rising, under his master 
Rhodes, Sir William D'Avenant procured a patent 
of King Charles II. for erecting a company under 
the title of The Duke of YorWs Servants, and took 
Mr. Betterton, and all who acted under Mr. Rhodes, 
into his company ; and in the year 1682, opened a 
Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, with the first and 
second parts of The Siege of Rhodes, having new 
scenes, and decorations of the Stage, which were 
then first used in England. 

Although this be affirmed by some, others have 
laid it to the charge of Mr. Betterton, as a crime, 
that he was the first innovator on our rude Stage : 
and that such innovations were the destruction of 
good playing ; but I think with very little show of 
reason, and very little knowledge of the Stages of 
Athens and Rome, where, I am apt to believe, was, 
in their flourishing times, as great actors, as ever 
played here, before curtains. For how that which 
helps the representation, by assisting the pleasing 
delusion of the mind in regard of the place, should 
spoil the acting, I cannot imagine. 

The Athenian Stage was so much adorned, that 

the very ornaments or decorations cost the State 

more money, than their wars against the Persians 

and the Romans : though their Dramatic Poets 

% 



10 THE HISTORY OF 

were mil eh inferior to the Greeks, (if we may guess 
at those Avho are perished, by those who remain) 
were yet not behind them, in the magnificence of 
the Theatre to heighten the pleasure of the repre- 
sentation. If this was Mr. Betterton's thought, it 
was very just ; since the audience must he often puz- 
zled to find the place and situation of the scene, 
which gives great light to the play, and helps to de- 
ceive us agreeably, while they saw nothing before 
them but some linsey-wolsey curtains, or at best, 
some piece of old tapestry filled with aukward fig- 
ures, such as were disagreeable to the audience. 
This therefore T must urge as his praise. Mr. Bet- 
terton endeavoured to complete that representation 
which before was but imperfect. 

At what time his Grace the Right Honourable 
George Villiers, Duke of Rockingham, began to 
write his Rehearsal, we cannot exactly learn ; but 
thus much may be certainly gathered from the plays 
satarized in it, that it was before the end of the year 
1663, and it is demonstrable that it was finished be- 
fore the year 1664, because it had been several times 
rehearsed, the players were perfect in their parts, 
and all things were in readiness for its acting before 
the great plague in 1665, which prevented its being 
played. What was then intended, being very dif- 
ferent from what now appears. In that the Poet 
was called Bilboa, by which name Sir Robert How- 
ard was the person pointed at. During this inter- 
val many plays were brought upon the Stage, writ- 
ten in heroic rhyme ; and on the death of Sir Wil- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 11 

Ham D'Avenant, in 1668, whom Mr. Dryden suc- 
ceeded as Poet Laureat, it became still in greater 
vogue. This moved the Duke to ehange the name 
of the hero from Bilboa to Bays, directly levelling 
his bolt at Mr. Dryden. It was brought upon the 
Stage ia 1671? acted with universal applause, and 
is the justest and truest satire upon a vitiated and 
Dramatic taste, the world ever saw ; as it will be an 
everlasting proof of the author's wit and judgment. 

Mr. Eetterton, now making, among the men, the 
foremost figure in Sir William D'Avenant' s compa- 
ny, he cast his eyes on Miss Saunderson, who was 
no less eminent among the women, and married her. 
She was bred in the house of the patentee, improv- 
ed herself daily in her profession, and having, by 
nature, all the accomplishments required to make 
a perfect actress, she added to them the distin- 
guishing characteristic of a virtuous life. 

But notwithstanding the industry of the patentee 
and managers, it seems the King's house then carri- 
ed the vogue of the towm, and the Lincoln's Inn 
Fields Theatre being not so commodious, the play- 
ers and other adventurers built a much more niasmifi- 
cent one in Dorset Gardens, Fleet Street, and adorn- 
ed it with all the machines and decorations the skill 
of those times could afford. This likewise proving 
less effectual than they hoped, other arts were em- 
ployed, and the political maxim of Divide and Ira- 
pera, (Divide and Govern) being put in practice, the 
feuds and animosities of the King's company were 
so well improved as to produce an union between 



IS THE HISTORY OF 

the two patents. To bring this design about, the 
following agreement was executed, viz. 

Memorandum, October 1% 1681. 
i It is hereby agreed upon, between 13r. Charles 
D'Avenant, Thomas Bctterton, Gent, and William 
Smith, Gent, of the one part, and Charles Hart, 
Gent, and Edward Kynaston, Gent, on the other 
part. That, the said Charles D'Avenant, Thomas 
Betterton, and William Smith, do pay, or eause to 
be paid, out of the profits of acting, unto Charles 
Hart and Edward Kynaston, five shillings a-piece 
for every day there shall be any Tragedies or Com- 
edies, or other representations acted at the Duke's 
Theatre in Salisbury Court ; or wherever the com- 
pany shall act during the respective lives of the said 
Charles Hart and Edward Kynaston, excepting the 
days the young men or young women play for their 
own profit only : but this agreement to cease, if the 
said Charles Hart or Edward Kynaston shall at any 
time play among or assist the King's company of 
actors ; and for as long as this is paid, they both 
covenant and promise not to play at the King's 
Theatre. 

If Mr. Kynaston shall hereafter be free to act at 
the Duke's Theatre, this agreement with him, as to 
his pension, shall also cease. 

In consideration of this pension, Mr. Hart and 
Mr. Kynaston do promise to make over, within a 
month after the sealing of this, unto Charles D' Ave- 
saant, Thomas Betterton and William Smith, allihs 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 13 

right, title and claim which they or either of them 
may have to any plays, books, cloaths, and scenes 
in the King's Playhouse. 

Mr. Hart and Mr. Kynaston do also both prom- 
ise, within a month after the sealing hereof, tomaka 
over to the said Charles D'Avenant, Thomas Bet- 
terton and William Smith, all the title which they, 
or each of them, have to six shillings a-piece for 
every day there shall be any playing at the King's 
Theatre. 

Mr. Hart and Mr. Kynaston do both also prom- 
ise to promote with all their power and interest, an 
agreement between both playhouses ; and Mr. Kyn- 
aston for himself, promises to endeavour, as much 
as he can, to get free, that he may act at the Duke's 
playhouse, but he is not obliged to play unless he 
nave ten shillings per day allowed, for his acting, 
and his pension then to cease. 

Mr. Hart and Mr. Kynaston promise to go to law 
with Mr. Killigrew to have these articles perform- 
ed, and are to be at the expence of the suit. 

In witness of this agreement, all the parties have 
hereunto set their hands, this 14th day of Oct. 1681. 
Charles D'Avenant, 
Thomas Betterton, 
William Smith, 
v Charles Hart, 

Edward Kynaston. 

This private agreement hath been reflected on as 
tricking and unfair, but then it is by those, who 



14 THE HISTORY OF 

have not sufficiently considered the matter ; for, an 
dolus, an virtus, quis in hoste requirit ? All strata- 
gems are allowed between enemies ; the two houses 
were at war ; conduct and action were to decide the 
victory ; aud whatever the Duke's company might 
£ill short of in action, it is plain they won the field 
by their conduct. For Mr. Hart and Mr. Kynas- 
ton performed their promises so well, that the union 
was effected the very next winter, 1682. 

We must now leave these gentlemen for some 
time, in the useful province of their profession, both 
to instruct and divert the public, (which was the 
original institution of Dramatic Poesie) to give an 
account of Miss Barry. Some particular Memoirs, 
relating to her, we have been favoured with by a 
gentlewoman, her most intimate friend, which is the 
subject of our next chapter. 

CHAP. II. 

MEMOIRS OF MISS BARRY, &e. 

Elizabeth Barry was the daughter of Robert 
Barry, Esq. Barrister at Law ; a gentleman of an 
ancient family, and good estate. 

At the beginning of the civil wars, when king 
Charles invited all his loyal subjects to take up 
arms in his defence, Mr. Barry raised a Regiment 
for his Majesty's service, composed of his neigh- 
bours and tenants, equipping and maintaining them 
a considerable time at his own expense. This, as it 
ever after, made him known by the title of Colonel 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 10 

Barry, it also so far incumbered his estate, as to 
oblige his children when grown up, to make their 
own fortunes in the world. 

The Lady D'Avenant, who had been several 
years a widow, and a particular friend of Sir Wil- 
liam D'Avenant, having the greatest friendship for 
Col. Barry, took his daughter, when young, and 
gave her a good education. Lady D'Avenant made 
her not only her companion, but carried her where- 
ever she visited. Miss Barry by frequently con- 
versing with ladies of the first rank and best sense, 
became soon mistress of that behaviour which sets 
off the well-bred gentlewoman. 

What first recommended Miss Barry to the stage f 
was her voice ; her good air, though no beauty, made 
Sir William take her ; but as she had a very bad 
ear, they found it so difficult to teach her, that they 
thought it would be impossible to make her fit for 
the meanest part. Three times she was rejected \ 
and three times, by the interest of her lady, they 
were prevailed on again to try her, but with so lit- 
tle success, that several persons of wit and quality 
being at the play, and observing how ill she per- 
formed, positively gave their opinion she nev- 
er would be capable of any part of acting. But the 
'Earl of Rochester, to show them he had a judgment 
superior, entered into a wager, that by proper in- 
structions, in less than six months, he would engage 
she should be the finest player on the Stage. He 
Was opposed by them all, and though they knew 
him to be a person of excellent sense, yet they 



16 THE HISTORY OF 

thought, on this subject, he had started beyond the 
bounds of his judgment; and so many poignank 
things were said to him on this occasion, that they 
piqued him into a resolution of taking such pains 
with Miss Barry, as to convince them he was not 
mistaken. 

From the moment he had this dispute, he became 
intimately acquainted with her, but to the world he 
kept it private, especially from those he bad argu- 
ed with about her. He soon, by talking with her, 
found her mistress of exquisite charms ; and it was 
thought that he never loved any person so sincerely 
as he did Miss Barry. Whoever has a mind to 
see him in the form of a lover, may find him shine 
in the letters annexed to his Poems (bound up with 
the Tragedy of Valentinian) Miss Barry being the 
person to whom they were addressed. 

The first parts Lord Rochester chose to teach 
Miss Barry, were the Little Gipsey, in the comedy 
of the Rover, by Miss Behn ; and Isabella, the 
Hungarian Queen, in the tragedy of Mustapha, by 
the Earl of Orrery ; which (besides the private in- 
structions he gave her) lie made her rehearse near 
thirty times on the stage, and about twelve in the 
dress she was to act it in. He took such extraor- 
dinary pains with her, as not to omit the least look 
or motion, nay, I have been assured from those who 
were present, that her Page was taught to manage 
her train, in such a manner, so as to givft each move- 
ment a peculiar grace. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 17 

But before I mention what success the Peer had 
with his Pupil, to give the reader a dearer idea, it 
was certain Miss Barry was mistress of very good 
understanding, yet she having little, or no ear for 
music, which caused her to be thought dull when 
she was taught by the actors, because she could not 
readily eatch the manner of their sounding words, 
but run into a tone, the fault of most young players ; 
this defect my Lord perceiving, he made her enter 
into the nature of each sentiment ; perfectly chang- 
ing herself, as it were, into the person, not merely 
by the proper stress or sounding of the voice, but 
feeling really, and being in the humor, the person 
she represented, was supposed to be in. 

As no age ever produced a person better skilled 
in the various passions and foibles of mankind than 
my Lord Rochester, so none was more capable of in- 
structiug her to give those heightening strokes which 
surprised and delighted all who saw her. 

The first night she played the' Hungarian Queen, 
my Lord brought the King, and the Duke and 
Duchess to the play, besides the persons he had 
disputed withal about her. The very air she ap- 
peared with, in that distressed character, moved them 
with pity, preparing the mind to greater expectations, 
but when she spoke these words to the insulting 
Cardinal, 

My Lord, my sorrow seeks not your relief; 
You are not fit to judge a mother's grief: 
You have no child for an untimely grave, 
Nor can you lose what I desire to sav*. 
3 



18 THE HISTORY OF 

Here, Majesty distressed by the hostile foe, the 
widow Queen forlorn, insulted by her subjects, feel- 
ing all an afflicted mother could suffer by astern coun- 
sellor's forcing her to yield her only son to be sacri- 
ficed to the enemy to save themselves and city, these 
passions were so finely expressed by her, that the 
whole theatre resounded with applauses ; the Duch- 
ess of York was so pleased, that from Miss Barry 
she learned to improve in the English language, 
made her a present of her wedding suit, and favoured 
her in so particular a manner, not only whilst Duch- 
ess, but when Queen, it is said, she gave her her cor- 
onation robes to act Queen Elizabeth, in the Earl of 
Essex. In this part, though the play is but indiffer- 
ently wrote, and filled with bombast, yet Miss Bar- 
ry so happily hit it, she made that Queen, which was 
so much beloved, revive again, and become idolized 
in her : that little speech of 

" What means my giving subjects ?" 

was spoken .with such a grace and Emphasis, as was 
never before, or since, to be imitated ; her performance 
giving the audience an idea of that princess in many 
important passages of her life. The air with Which 
she looked when she penetrated into the thoughts of 
the Countesses of Rutland and Nottingham (on their * 
endeavouring to hide the different passions of hate 
and love) shewed, more than the language, the pierc- 
ing genius of that great Lady ; but when Cecil is 
recounting the seizure of the Earls, and mourns Es- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 19 

sex's fallen state, no imagination can form, that has 
seen lier look, and air, when she says 

Essex thou art fallen indeed ! 

See ! the crocodile weeps over his prey. 

As those who are acquainted with history know, 
that Queen Elizabeth notwithstanding her indulgence 
to her favorites, had a quick penetration into their 
faults ; so, it is certain, at the same time her eyes 
flowed with pity, for the follies and mismanagements 
which drew on their fates. The sword still execut- 
ed justice on the traitors. This Miss Barry repre- 
sented so finely, that love, disdain, hate, severity and 
pity, were so blended together in this politic Queen, 
one could not say which had the mastery, and gave 
that age greater lights into Queen Elizabeth's tem- 
per than history itself. 

Alexander the Great $ or the Rival Queens, was 
a play in which Miss Barry by her admirable acting 
seemed to haYs new formed the character ; to read the 
play one would think the poet had been in a rage the 
whole time he was writing it, yet there are some 
strokes in it which have the true fire of poetry. The 
players, when this tragedy first appeared, made it a 
favorite one to the world, but for the want of a Bar- 
ry and a Bracegirdle, the characters of Xtoxana and 
Statka are perfect burlesque on the dignity of Maj- 
esty, and good manners. Hoxana is haughty, ma- 
licious, insinuating ; with this compound, she is made 
desperately in love with Alexander. On her first 



30 THE IIISTORY OF 

entering, what misery did she seem to feel, tortured 
with jealousy, when she says, 

Madness but meanly represents my toil. 

Roxana and Stalira ! they are names 

That nuist for ever jar ; eternal discord, 

Fury, revenge, disdain, and indignation, 

Tear my swoln breast, make way for fire and tempest; 

My brain is burst, debate and reason quench'd, 

The storm is up, and my hot bleeding heart, 

Splits with the rack. 

I have heard this speech spoken in a rage that run 
the actor out of breath ; but Miss Barry when she 
talked of her hot bleeding heart, seemed to feel a fe- 
ver within, which by debate and reason she would 
quench. This was not done in a ranting air, but as 
if she were struggling with her passions, and trying 
to get the mastery of them ; a peculiar smile she had, 
which made her look the most genteelly malicious 
person that can be imagined ; when she meets Sta- 
tira, and insults her in these words : 

I hope your majesty will give me leave 
To wait you to the grove, where you would grieve. 
Where like the turtle, you the loss will moan 
Of that dear mate, and murmur all alone. 

Then with what a softness did she look and speak 
when she takes Alexander by the hand, saying, 

now for a last look, 



And that the memory of Roxana* s wrongs 
May be for ever printed in your mind. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. Si 

In the following scene Hoxana's character rises ; 
no rage, no revenge, nor even the fear of Sysigam- 
bis, who by her policies was suspected to aim at her, 
and the infant's destruction with which she was with 
child, could make her admit a thought against Alex- 
ander's life, nay, the indignation she is in with Ca- 
sander for tempting her, joined with his proffered 
love, is so great, that heightened at it, he is forced 
as in astonishment, to soothe her rage, and to con- 
trive the getting Statira into her power. Once at the 
acting the last scene of this play, Miss Barry wound- 
ed Miss Boutel (who first played the part of Statira) 
the occasion of which I shall here recite. 

Miss Boutel was likewise a very considerable ac- 
tress ; she was low of stature, had very agreeable 
features, a good complexion, but a childish look. 
Her voice was weak, though very mellow ; she gen- 
erally acted the young innocent lady whom all the 
heroes are mad in love with ; she was a favourite of 
the town ; and, besides what she saved by playing, 
the generosity of some happy lovers enabled her to 
quit the stage before she grew old. 

It happened these two persons before they appear- 
ed to the audience, unfortunately had some dispute 
about a veil which Miss Boutel by the partiality of 
the property-man obtained ; this offending the haugh- 
ty Hoxana, they had warm disputes behind the scenes, 
which spirited the Hivals with such a natural resent- 
ment to eaeh other, they were so violent in perform- 
ing their parts, and acted with such vivacity, that 



*5# THE HISTORY" OF 

Statira on hearing the King was nigh, begs ike Gods 
to help her for that moment ; on which Hoxana 
hastening the designed blow, struck with such force, 
that though the point of the dagger was blunted, it 
made way through Miss Boutel's stays, and entered 
about a quarter of an inch in the flesh. 

This accident made a great bustle in the house, 
and alarmed the town ; many different stories were 
told ; some affirmed, Miss Barry was jealous of Miss 
Boutel and Lord Rochester, which made them sup- 
pose she did it with design to destroy her ; but by 
all that could be discovered on the strictest examina- 
tion of both parties, it was only the veil these two la- 
dies contended for and Miss Barry being warmed with 
anger, in her part, she struck the dagger with less 
caution, than at other times. 

Though I have mentioned several passages of this 
play in which Miss Barry shined, I cannot conclude 
without taking notice that tbough before our eyes we 
had just seen Roxana with such malice, murder an 
innocent person, because better beloved tban herself; 
yet, after Statira is dead, and Boxana is following 
Alexander on her knees, Miss Barry made this com- 
plaint in so pathetic a manner, as drew tears from the 
greatest part of the audience. 

O ! speak not such harsh words, my royal master : 
But take, dear sir, ! take me into grace ; : 
By the dear babe, th burden of my womb, 
That weighs me down wben I would follow faster. 
My knees are weary, and my force is spent 5 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 23 

v O ! do r.at frown, but clear that angry brow 5 
Your eyes will blast nv, and your words are bolls 
That strike me dead : the little wretch I bear, 
Leaps frighted at your wrath, and dies within me. 

Here end the memoirs commimicated to us con- 
cerning Miss Barry. Bui; to the same hand we are 
obliged for the following account of that celebrated 
actress. Miss Marshall. 

Dr. D'Avenant's company falling under Mr. Bet- 
terton's direction, as to the women, he employed 
himself in visiting, and overlooking their actions as a 
guardian, or father, and several ladies so far busied 
themselves as often to enter into quarrels with ne- 
phews, sons and husbands, about attempting to cor- 
rupt them. The private behaviour of these young 
women were frequently talked of by the ladies, ex- 
tolling their virtuous resistance of those dangerous 
seducers, man, to the clouds ; and comparing fallen 
nymphs, with the fiends sinking to the shades below* 

Mrs. Betterton, encouraged by the public, joined 
with her own good inclinations, trod the stage with- 
out the least reproach ; but the first thing that gave* 
a damp to these endeavours, and caused her to find 
the guarding these ladies virtues a task more la- 
borious, and difficult, than any Hercules had impos- 
ed on him by his step-dame, wa^f what happened 
to the famous Miss Marshall, more known by the 
name of Roxalana, from her acting tha.t part. This- 
lady possessed a mind which shone with a haughty 
and severe virtue according to the haughtiness of that 



Si THE HISTORY OF 

age. She was attacked by, and had withstood the 
Earl of Oxford* in every form an artful gallant could 
put on. Grown mad with love, and her repulses, he 
forms a plot to get her by force ; intending to seize 
her as she went from the house after she had been 
acting this part ; which being made known to her, 
by some real friend, she obtained a party of the King's 
Guards to protect her. When her Chair appeared, 
the Nobleman began his assault, but was valiantly 
repulsed, and she was safely conducted home. 

This adventure was the whole talk of the court and 
town ; the ladies applauded her resolution secretly, 
not a little pleased to see their sex's resolute beha- 
viour in Roxalana. Many parties were formed both 
for and against her. The fanatics cried out, saying 
it was a shame they should briog up girls in the 
school of Venus, teaching them such airs and tricks 
to tempt mankind. The gentry liked the diversion, 
alledging, the greater the temptation, the greater the 
glory to resist, saying that ladies were bred up in vir- 
tuous sentiments, their minds improved by high ideas, 
and encouraged by the patronage of the good and 
great. 

However, in this affair, the King himself having 
the story represented to him in the blackest light, 
interposed ; and his Majesty, with a freedom natu- 
ral to one of the best tempered Princes, told the Earl 
he thought the vice (though perhaps he gave too much 
countenance to it by his own irregularity) bad enough 

* Aubrey De Vere. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 25 

with the consent of the Fair, but where force or vio- 
lence was used, it was so heinous, he would not, 
though a sovereign, indulge the thought of sueh an 
action, much more permit it to be done by a subject. 
This reproof caused the Earl to answer with some 
reserve, he said he would think no more of her ; but 
scon after he renewed his assault, telling her it was 
impossible to live without her. That, her exalted 
virtue had inspired him with other sentiments, pro- 
posing to marry her in private. This bait TLoxala- 
na greedily swallowed, her vanity inclining her to 
believe the Earl sincere. In short, the Earl comes, 
brings his coachman dressed like a minister, marries 
her, and took her down to one of his country seats, 
where soon growing weary of her, lie pulled off the 
mask, and, with scorn, bid her return to the stage. 
Upon this, she threw herself at the king's feet, who 
countenanced her so far, that he made the Earl al- 
low her 5001. a year ; and as long as her son lived 
would not suffer him to marry any other lady ; but 
on the child's death, the concern for so ancient a 
family's becoming extinct (the Earl being the last of 
it) his Majesty through great intercession was pre- 
vailed on, to permit of the Sari's re-marriage. 

We are, in this place, obliged, in justice to her 
merit, to introduce a lady now living, Miss Anne 
Bracegirdle. She was the daughter of Justinian 
Bracegirdle of Northamptonshire, Esq. where she 
was born. 

It is not any matter of our inquiry by what means 
4 



S5 THE HISTORY OT 

a gentlewoman of so good an extraction came upc?* 
the stage, since the best families have been liable to 
the greatest misfortunes, amongst which was that of 
her father, in being bound, a,ud suffering for others. 
But it may be some kind of alleviation to say, that 
in the scene, wherein Providence had consigned her 
fate, she had the good fortune to be well placed, when 
an infant, under the care of Mr. Beitertcn and his 
wife, whose tenderness she always acknowledges to 
have been paternal ; nature formed her for the stage, 
and it was to the admiration of all spectators that she 
performed the Page in The Orphan, at the Duke's 
Theatre in Dorset Garden, before she was six year* 
old. 

Here we must leave her for the present, and re- 
turn to Mr. Betterton. For, with him, we must ob- 
serve that the disregard for the Tragic poem, is at 
all times chiefly to be attributed to a defect in the ac- 
tion, when represented on Dm stage. 

Nor is there any greater proof of the virtue or cor- 
ruption of the people,, than their pleasures. Thus in 
the time of the vigour of the Roman virtue, Tragedy 
was very much esteemed, its dignity kept up, and the 
decorum of the stage so very nicely observed, that a 
Player's standing out of his order, or speaking a 
false quantity, teas sufficient for him to be hissed off 
the stage. This Cicero assures us, Histrio si panto 
movit extra JSPumerum, aut si Versus pronunciatus 
est Syttabauna brevior aut longior exsibilatur 8£ ex~ 
ploditur. Paradox iii. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 2^ 

And when they give us the most noble examples 
*>f virtue in their real life, they were most pleased 
with the representation of noble examples on the 
sta<-e ; for people are delighted with what bears the 
greatest likeness to the turn and temperament of their 
own minds. Thus when the Roman virtue decayed, 
or indeed was lost with their liberty, and they sub- 
sisted and spread their dominions more by the merit 
of their ancestors, and the Roman name made terri- 
ble by them, than by their own bravery, then effemi- 
nacy and folly spread through the people, which im- 
mediately appeared in their sports or spectacles ; and 
Tragedy was slighted. 

Now Farce on the one hand, with its Mimes and 
Pantomimes, and Opera on the other, with its emas- 
culating sounds, invade and vanquish the stage, and 
draw the ears and eyes of the people, who care only 
to laugh, or to see things extravagant and monstrous. 
I rather at present attribute the decay of Tragedy 
to our want of Tragedians, and indeed Tragic Poets, 
than to the corruption of the people ; which, though 
great enough, yet is not so desolate, as what we have 
mentioned in the Roman State. 

I have often heard Mr. Betterton say, that when 
lie first played under Sir William D'Avenant, the 
company was much better regulated, and they were 
obliged to make their study their business, which our 
young actors do not think it their duty now to do ; 
for they scarce ever mind a word of their parts but 
only at Rehearsals, and come thither too often scarce 



S8 THE BISTORT or 

recovered from their last night's debauch ; when the 
mind is not very capable of meditating so calmly and 
judiciously on what they have to study, as to enter 
thoroughly into the nature of the part, or to consider 
the variation of the voice, looks and gestures which 
should give them their true beauty, many of them 
thinking that making a noise renders them agreeable 
to the audience, because a few of the upper gallery 
clap the' loud efforts of their lungs, in which their 
understanding lias no share. They think it a su- 
perfluous trouble to study real excellence, which 
might rob them of what they fancy more, midnight, 
or indeed whole night's debauches, and a lazy re- 
missness in their business. 

Another obstacle to the improvement of our young 
players, is that when they have not been admitted 
above a month or two into the company, though their 
education and former business were ever so foreign 
to acting, they vainly imagine themselves masters 
of an art, which perfectly to attain, requires a studi- 
ous application of a man's whole life. They take it 
therefore amiss to have the poet give tham any instruc- 
tion ; and though they hardly know any thing of the 
art of poetry, will pass their censure, and neglect or 
mind a part as they think the author and his part de- 
serves. Though in this they are led by fancy as 
blind as ignorance can make it; and so wandering 
without any certain rule of judgment, generally fa- 
vour the bad, and slight the good. Whereas, said 
he, it has always been mine and Miss Barrry's prac- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 89 

iice to consult even the most indifferent poet in any 
part we have thought fit to accept of ; and I may say 
it of her, she has often so exerted herself in an indif- 
ferent pari;, that her acting has given sueccss in such 
Plays, as to read, would turn a man's stomach ; and 
though I could never pretend to do so much service 
that way, as she has done, yet I have never been 
wanting in my endeavours. But while young actors 
will think themselves masters before they understand 
any one point of their art, and not give themselves 
leisure and time to study the Graces of Action and 
Utterance, it is impossible that the stage should flour- 
ish and advance in perfection. 

Everyone must be sensible of the justness of these 
sentiments, but some are apt to believe many of them 
proceed from want of judgment in the Managers, in 
admitting people unqualified by nature, and not pro- 
viding such persons to direct them, as understand the 
art they should be improved in. All other arts peo- 
ple are taught by masters skilful in them, but here 
ignorance teaches itself, or rather confirms itself into 
the confidence of knowledge, by going on w ithout any 
rebuke. 

From these observations, and the instilling of them, 
into all under his care, were owing that just action 
which appeared on the stage under Mr. Eetterton's 
conduct. 

We shall next give the sentiments of a rigid critic 
upon the action of that period ; " Mr. Hart, (says Mr. 
"Rynier) always pleases, and, what he delivers, ev- 
u ery one takes upon consent ; their eyes are pre- 



30 THE HISTORY OF 

" possessed and charmed by his action, before aught 
* of the poet's can approach their ears ; and to the 
u most wretched of characters he gives a lustre and 
" brilliance, which dazzles the sight, that the deform- 
" ities in the poetry cannot be perceived.* 

u Both our iEsopas and Roseius (in The Maid's 
" Tragedy J are on the stage together 5 Mr: Hart and 
u Mr. Mohun are wanting in nothing. To these we 
" owe for what is pleasing in every scene wherein 
" they appear, f 

We shall now proceed to some brief notices, com- 
municated to us by Mr. Boman, of himself and con- 
temporaries. 



CHAP. III. 

Some JLccoimtofMr. Boman, Mr. JVokes 9 Mr. Smith, 
Mr. Harris, Mr. Lee, Mr. Mountfort, Miss 
Guyn, 8[c. 

John Boman, son of John Boman, of King Street, 
Westminster, was born atPillerton in Warwickshire, 
in the same house, chamber and bed wherein his 
mother was born, on the S7th of December, St. John's 
day, 1664. 

He was brought into the Duke's Theatre to sing 
at seven years old. 

* See his Letter to Sir Fleetwood Shepard, 1677, 8vo. p. 5 & 6. 
t Bid. 13S, and 193. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 81 

Mr. Boiiian married Elizabeth, daughter of Sir 
Francis Watson, Bart. She was born in the parish 
of St. Martin, in the Fields, 1677? and was a very- 
pretty player both in her person and performances ; 
particularly remarkable, for acting the part of Eury- 
dice in Oedipus. 

That famous Comedian, Mr. James Nokes, was a 
toyman in Cornhill. From his labours on the stage, 
he acquired and left to a nephew at Ms death, an es- 
tate of 400Z. jper annum, at Totteridge near Barnet. 

Upon his commencing player, King Charles the 
second first discovered his excellences as he was act- 
ing the Duke of Norfolk, in Shakespeare's Henry 
VIII. 

Mr. Dry den wrote Gomez in the Spanish Fryar, 
in compliment to Mr. Nokes. 

Mr. Smith was a barrister at law of the society of 
Gray's Inn. 

Mr. Harris was bred a seal-cutter, and he made 
Mr. Joseph Williams a player. 

Mr. Anthony Lee was of a good family, and born 
in Northamptonshire. 

Mr. William Monntfort was a gentleman descend- 
ed of a very good family. The first particular notice 
taken of him on the Stage, was in acting the part of 
Tall-Boy ; soon after which his salary was advanced, 
and he became more famous in playing Sir Courtly 
Nice. 

He was taken off the stage, and made one of tk» 
gentlemen to Lord Chancellor Jefferies, " who at an 
" entertainment of the Lord Mayor and court of AL 



S3 THE HISTORY OP 

" derman in the year 1685, called for Mr. Mouutforfc 
" to divert the company (as his Lordship was pleas- 
" ed to term it) he being an excellent inimie, my Lord 
"made him plead before him in a feigned cause, in 
" which he aped all the great Lawyers of the age in 
" their tone of voice, and in their action and gesture 
" cf body, to the very great ridicule not only of the 
"lawyers, but of the law itself; which to me (says 
"the historian) did not seem altogether prudent in a 
" man of his lofty station in the law : diverting it cer- 
" tainly was ; but prudent, in the Lord high Cban- 
" cellor, I shall never think it.* 

"We must leave Mr. Mountfort, for some lime, per- 
forming his duty in the service of Lord Chancellor 
Jefferies, and proceed to others his cotemporaries, 
among whom was Mr. George Powel, an excellent 
tragedian. With him may be mentioned that mem- 
orable comedian Mr. Cave Underhill, with many 
more who will 'be mentioned in the course of these 
memoirs. 

But this chapter shall be concluded with a few re- 
marks, made by Mr. Addison, relating to a very pe- 
culiar player, f 

" Mr. William Peer was an actor at the restora- 
tion, and took his theatrical degree with Betterton, 
Kynaston and Harris. Though his station was hum- 
ble, he performed it well ; and the common compari- 

* See Sir John Reresby's Memoirs from the Restoration to 
the Revolution. Octavo, p. 230. 

t See Guardian, No. 82. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 38 

ith the stage and human life which has been so 
often made, may well be brought out on this occasion. 
It is no matter, say the moralists, whether you act a 
Prince, or a Beggar, the business is to do your part 
well." Mr. Peer distinguished himself particularly 
in two characters, which no man ever cculd touch but 
himself; one of them was the speaker of the Prologue 
to the play, which is contrived in the tragedy of Ham- 
let, to awake the conscience of the guilty King. Mr. 
Peer spoke this prologue with such an air as repre- 
sented him an actor, and with such an inferior man- 
ner as only acting an actor, as made the others on 
the stage appear real great persons, and not repre- 
sentatives. This was a nicety in acting, that none 
but the most; subtile player could so much as conceive. 
I remember his speaking these words, in which there 
is no great matter but in the right adjustment of the 
air of the speaker, with universal applause. 

For us, anil for our Tragedy, 
Here stooping (o your clemency, 
We beg your hearing patiently. 

Hamlet says very archly upon the pronouncing of it, 
" Is this a prologue or a poesie of a ring ?." However 
the speaking of it got Mr. Peer more reputation, 
than those who speak the length of a puritan's ser- 
mon every night will ever attain to. Besides this, 
he got great fame on another little occasion. He 
played the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet ; it will 
be necessary to recite more out of the play than Peer 
$poke, to have a right conception of what he did in it. 



S4i THE HISTORY 81 

Romeo, weary of life, recollects means to be rid of it 
after this manner : 

I do remember an apothecary 
That dwelt about this rendezvous of death ; 
Meagre and very rueful were his looks, 
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones. 

When this Spectre of poverty appeared, Romeo ad- 
dresses him thus : 

I see thou art very poor. 

Thou may'st do any thing, here's fifty drachms, 
Get me a draught of what will soonest free 
A wretch from all his cares. 

When the apothecary objects that it is unlawful, 
Romeo urges ; 

Art thou so base and full of wretchedness, 
Yet fear'st to die ? Famine is in thy cheeks, 
Need and oppression stareth in thy eyes, 
Contempt and beggary hang on thy back ; 
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's laws. 
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. 

Without these quotations the reader could not have a 
just idea of the visage and manner which Peer assum- 
ed, when in the most lamentable tone imaginable ; and 
delivering the poison, like a man reduced to the drink- 
ing it himself y if he did not vend it, says to Romeo, 

My poverty, but not my will, consents. 
Take this and drink it off, the work is done. 

It was an odd excellence, and a very particular 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 



35 



circumstance, this of Peer's, that his whole action of 
life depended upon speaking five lines better than any 
man else. 

We shall farther proceed to shew, from Mr. Bet- 
terton's papers, what the duty of a player is. 



CHAP. IV. 

Of the Duty of a Player. 

FROM his very name we may derive his -duty, he 
|s called an actor, and his excellence consistst in act- 
ing and speaking. The Mimes and Pantomimes 
did all by gesture, and the action of hands, legs and 
•feet, without making use of tshe tongue in uttering any 
sentiments or sounds ; so that they were something 
like our Dumb Shows, with this difference, one Pan- 
tomime expressed several persons, and that to the 
tunes of musical instruments. The dumb shows 
made use of several persons to express the design 
of the play as a silent action. The nature of this 
is best seen in Hamlet, before the entrance of his 
players. 

[Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly, the Queen 
embracing him ; she kneels, and makes shew of 
protestation unto him ; he takes her up, and re- 
clines his head on her neck. Lays him down on a 
bed of flowers ; she seeing him asleep, leaves him. 
Anon comes in a fellow, lakes off his crown, kisses 
it, and pours poison into the King's ear, and exit. 



36 THE HISTORY 01* 

The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and 
makes passionate action. The poisoner, with two 
or three mutes, comes in again, seems to lament 
with her ; the dead body is carried aivay. The 
poisoner courts the Queen with gifts: she seems 
loath and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts 
his love.'] 

I only repeat this, to shew the manner cf the old 
time, and what they meant by dumb shows, which 
Shakespeare himself condemns in this very play, 
when Hamlet says to the players, " O ! it offends me 
to the soul, to see a robnstuous perriwig pated fellow, 
tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears 
of the groundlings, who (for the most part) are capa- 
ble of nothing, but inexplicable dumb shows and 
noise." 

But the Pantomimes or Roman dancers, expressed 
all this in one person, as we have it in Mr. Mayne ? s 
Lucian ; where Demetrius the Cynic Philosopher 
railing against dancing, is invited by one of them in 
the time of Nero, to see him perform, without either 
pipe or flute, and did so; " for having imposed si- 
lence on the Instruments, he by himself, danced the 
adultery of Mars and Venus, the Sun betraying them, 
and Vulcan plotting, and catching them in a wire- 
net ; then every god, who was severally spectator ; 
then Venus blushing, and Mars beseeching ; in a 
word, he acted the whole fable so well, that Demet- 
rius much pleased with the spectacle, as the greatest 
praise that could be bestowed upon him, cried out in 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 37 

a loud voice, TJiear my friends what you act ; nor do 
I only see them, but methinks you speak with your 
hands. 

This instance not only shews the difference be- 
tween these pantomimes from our old dumb shows ; 
but the power of action, which a player ought to study 
with his utmost application. The orator at the bar, 
and in the pulpit, ought to understand the art of 
speaking perfectly well ; but action can never be in 
its perfection but on the stage, and in our time the 
pulpit and the bar have left off even that graceful ac- 
tion, which was neeessary to the business of those 
places, and gave a just weight and grace to the words 
they uttered. I wonder that our clergy do not a lit- 
tle more consider this point, and reflect, that they 
speak to the people as much as the orators of Greece 
and Home ; and what influence action had on tliem, 
will be evident from some instances we shall give in 
their proper places. 

Action indeed has a natural excellence in it, supe- 
rior to all other qualities ; action is motion, and mo- 
tion is the support of nature, which without it would 
again sink into the sluggish mass of chaos. Motion 
in the various and regular dances of the planets sur- 
prises and delights. Life is motion, and when that 
ceases, the human body so beautiful, nay, so divine 
when enlivened by motion, becomes a dead and pu- 
trid corse, from which all turn their eyes. The eye 
is caught by any thing in motion, but passes over the 
sluggish and motionless things as not tlie pleasing 
object of its view. 



38 THE HISTORY OF 

This natural power of motion or action is the rea- 
son, that the attention of the audience is fixed by any 
irregular, or even fantastic action, on the stage, of 
the most indifferent player : and supine and drowsy 
when the best actor speaks without the addition of 
action. 

It was the skill the ancient players of Athens and 
Rome had in this, which made them not only so 
much admired by the great men of those times and 
places, but raised them to the reputation of being 
masters of two of the greatest orators that Athens or 
Rome ever saw 5 and who, had it not been for the 
instructions of the actors Satyrus, Roscius, and iEso- 
pus, had never been able to convey their admirable 
parts to the world. 

Demosthenes being, after many successful attempts, 
one time exploded the assembly, went home with his 
head muffled up in his cloke, very much affected 
with the disgrace ; in this condition Satyrus the ac- 
tor followed him, being his intimate acquaintance, 
and fell into discourse with him. Demosthenes hav- 
ing bemoaned himself to him, told his misfortune, that 
having been the most industrious of the pleaders, and 
having spent almost the whole strength and vigour of 
his body in that employment, yet coiild he not render 
himself acceptable to the people ; that drunkards, 
sots and illiterate fellows, found so favourable a hear- 
ing, as to possess the pulpit, while he himself was 
despised. What you say (replied Satyrus) is very 
true, but I will soon remove the cause of all this, if 



THE ENGLISH STAGE, 39 

you will repeat some verses to ine out of Sophocles, 
or Euripides. When Demosthenes had pronounced 
after his way, Satyrus presently repeated the same 
verses with their proper tone, mien and gesture, gave 
such a turn to them, that Demosthenes himself per- 
ceived they had quite another appearanee. By which 
being convinced how much grace and ornament ac- 
crues to speech by a proper and due action, he began 
to think it of little consequence for a man to exercise 
himself in declaiming, if he neglected the just pro- 
nunciation or decency of speaking. Upon this he 
built himself a place under ground (which remained 
in the time of Plutarch) whither he retired every day 
to form his action, and exercise his voice. To shew 
what pains this great man took, as an example to 
our young actors, who do not think themselves oblig- 
ed to take any at all, I shall proceed with Plutarch. 
In his house he had a great looking-glass, before 
which he would stand, and repeat his orations ; by 
that means observing how far his action tmd gesture 
were graceful or unbecoming. 

The same Demosthenes, when a client came to 
him on an assault and battery, he at large gave him 
an account of what blows he had received from bis 
adversary, but in so calm and unconcerned a man- 
ner, that Demosthenes said, " surely, my good friend, 
thou hast not suffered any one thing of what thou 
makest thy complaint :" upon which his client warm- 
ed, cried aloud " How, Demosthenes ? Have I 

suffered nothing?" " Ay marry,"' replies he, "now 



40 THE HISTORY 07 

I hear the voice of a man, who lias been injured 
and beaten." Of so great consequence did he think 
the tone and aetion of the speaker towards the gain- 
ing belief. 

This was the case of Demosthenes, as Plutarch 

assures us, and that of Cicero was not much different 
— At first (says Plutarch) he was, as well as De- 
mosthenes, very defective in action, and therefore he 
diligently applied himself to Roscius the Comedian, 
sometimes, and sometimes to iEsopus the Tragedian. 
And such afterwards was the action of Cicero, that it 
did not a little contribute to make his eloquence per- 
suasive ; deriding the rhetoricians of his time, for de- 
livering their orations with so much noise and bawl- 
ing, saying that it was their want of ability to speak, 
which made them have recourse to bellowing. 

The same might be said to many of our bawling 
actors, of which number iEsopus was not, yet so 
possessed with his part, that he took his acting to be 
so real, and not a representation, that whilst he was 
on the stage representing Atreus deliberating on the 
revenge of Thyestes, he was so transported beyond 
himself, that he smote one of the servants hastily 
crossing the stage, and laid him dead on the place. 

Lord Bacon, in his Advancement of Learning, 
gives us a history from the annals of Tacitus, of one 
Vibulenus, formerly an actor on the stage, but at 
that time a common- soldier in the Pannonian garri- 
sons ; which is a wonderful instance of the power 
of action, and what force it adds to the words. The 
account is as follows : 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 41 

Vibulenus, on the death of Augustus Cesar, had 
raised a mutiny, so that Blesus the Lieutenant com- 
mitted some of the mutineers to prison ; but the sol- 
diers violently broke open the prison gates, and set 
their comrades at liberty ; and this Yibulenus, in a 
tribunitial speech to the soldiers, begins intbis man- 
ner — (i You have given life and light to these poor 
innocent wretches — but who restores my brother to 
me, or life to my brother? Who was sent hither 
with a message from the legions of Germany to treat 
of the common cause ; and this very last night has 
he murdered him by some of his gladiators, some of 
his bravoes, whom he keeps about him to be the mur- 
derers of the soldiers. Answer, Blesus, where hast 
thou thrown his body ; the most mortal enemies de- 
ny not burial to the dead enemy. When to his 
corpse I have performed my last duties in kisses, 
and flowing tears, command me to be slain at his side, 
so that these our fellow soldiers, may have leave to 
bury us." 

He put the army into such a ferment and fury, by 
this speech, that if it had not immediately been made 
appear, there was no such matter, and that he nev- 
er had any brother, the soldiers would hardly have 
spared the Lieutenant's life ; for he acted as if it 
had been some interlude on the stage. 

There is not so great a pathos in the words uttered 
by the soldier, as to stir the army into so very great 
a ferment, they must therefore receive almost their 
whole force from a most moving and pathetic action, 
in which his eyes, hands and voice, joined in a most 
6 



4$ THE HISTORY OF 

lively expression of his misery and of bis loss. It 
is true, that when an army is tumultuous in itself, it 
is no difficult matter to run them into madness : but 
then it must be done by some, who either by their 
former interest there, had purchased an opinion among 
them, or some one who by the artfulness of his ad- 
dress, should touch their souls, and so engage them 
to what he pleases. The latter 1 take to be our case 
in Vibulenus, who by the advantage of his skill in 
action, recommended himself and his supposititious 
cause so effectually to them, as to make the Gen- 
eral run a great hazard of his life for an imaginary 
murder. 

This has made some of the old orators give the 
sole power in speech to action, as I have read in 
some of those learned men who have treated of this 
subject in English and French. And I am persuad- 
ed that the clergy would move their hearers far more, 
if they added but graceful action, to loud speaking. 
This often sets off indifferent matter, and makes a 
man of little skill in any other part of oratory, pass 
for the most eloquent; this, I have read, was the 
case of Trachallus, who though none of the best ora- 
tors of his time for the composition and writing pari, 
yet excelled all the pleaders of that age, his appear- 
ance and delivery was so plausible and pleasing. 
The stateliness of his person and port^ the sparkling 
of his eyes, the majesty of his looks, the beauty of 
his mien, and his voice, added to these qualities, 
which not only for gravity and composedness came 
up to that of a Tragedian, but even excelled any ac- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 43 

tors that ever yet trod the stage, as Quintilian assures 
us. Philustus, on the other hand, for want of these 
advantages of utterance, lost all the beauty and force 
of his pleadings, though for language and the art of 
composition he excelled all the Greeks of his time. 

The same advantage had Pericles and Hortensius, 
■with this difference, If ortensius ascribed all the suc- 
cess of his pleadings to the merit of the writing, and 
convinced the world of his error by publishing his 
orations ; Pericles, though it is said he had the God- 
dess persuasion en his lips, and that he thundered 
and lightened in an assembly, and made all Greece 
tremble when he spoke, yet would never publish any 
of his orations, because their excellency lay in the 
action. 

What I have said here of action in general, and 
the particular examples I have given, is I believe 
sufficient to satisfy any one that is studious of ex- 
cellence on the stage, that it ought to be his chief aim 
and application. But next to this is the art of speak- 
ing, in which also a player ought to be perfectly skill- 
ed ; for, as an eminent writer observes, u The ope- 
u ration of speech is strong, not only for the reason or 
" wit therein contained, but by its sound. For in all 
te good speech there is a sort of music, with respect 
" to its measure, time and tune. Every well meas- 
ured sentence is proportional three ways, in all its 
" parts to the sentences, and to what it is intended to 
V express, and all words that have time allowed to 
" their syllables, as is suitable to the letters whereof 
"they consist, and to the order in which they stand 



4i THE HISTORY OF 

"in a sentence. Nor are words without their tuna 
" or notes even in common talk, which together com- 
" pose that tune, which is proper to every sentence, 
"and may be pricked down as well as any musical 
" tune ; only in the tunes of speech the notes have 
" much less variety, and have all a short time. With 
" respect also to time and measure, the .poetic is less 
"various, and therefore less powerful, than that of 
" oratory ; the former being like that of a short eoun- 
" try song repeated to the end of the poem, but that 
" of oratory is varied all along, like the divisions 
"'which a skilful musician runs upon a lute. 

He proceeds to our former consideration, saying, — 
"The behaviour and gesture is also offeree ; as in 
"oratory so in converse, consisting of almost as ma- 
" ny motions, as there are moveable parts of the body, 
"all made with a certain agreeable measure between 
" one another, and at the same time answerable to 
" that of speech, which when easy and unaffected is 
" becoming. 5 ' 

A mastery in these two parts is what completes 
an actor ; and I hope the rules I shall give for both, 
will be of use to such as have truly a genius for this 
art ; the rules of which, like those of poetry, are on- 
ly for those who have a genius, and are not perfectly 
to be understood by those who have not. 

To begin therefore with action, the player is to 
consider, that it is not every rude and undesigning 
action which is his business, for that is what the ig- 
norant as well as the skillful may have, nor can in- 
deed want? but the action of a player is, what is 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 45 

agreeable to personation, or the subject he represents. 
Now what he represents, is man in his various char- 
acters, manner and passions, and to these heads he 
must adjust every action; he must perfectly express 
the quality and manners of the man whose person he 
assumes, that is, he must know how his manners are 
. compounded, and from thence know the several fea- 
tures, as I may call them, of his passions. A pat- 
riot, a prince, a beggar, a clown, &c. must each have 
their propriety, and distinction in action as well as 
words and language. An actor therefore must vary 
with his argument, that is, carry the person in all his 
manners and qualities with him in every action and 
passion ; he must transform himself into every per- 
son he represents, since he is to act all sorts Gf ac- 
tions and passions. Sometimes he is to be a lover, 
and kuow not only all the soft and tender addresses 
of one, but what are proper to the character of him 
who is in love, whether he be a prince or a peasant., 
a hot or fiery man, or of more moderate and phlegmatic 
constitution, and even the degrees of the passion he 
is possessed with. Sometimes he is to represent 
a choleric, hot and jealous man ; then he must be 
throughly acquainted with all the motions and sen- 
timents productive of those motions of the feet, 
hands and looks of such a person in such circum- 
stances. Sometimes he is a person all dejected 
and bending under the extremeties of grief and sor- 
row ; which changes the whole form and appearance 
of him in the representation, as it does really in na- 
ture. Sometimes he is distracted* and here nature 
will teach him, that his action has always something 



46 THE HISTORY OF 

wild and irregular, though even that regularly ; that 
his eyes, his looks or countenance, motions of body, 
hands and feet, be all of a piece, and that he never 
falls into the indifferent state of calmness and uncon- 
cern. As he now represents Achilles, then iEneas, 
another time Hamlet, then Alexander the Great, and 
Oedipus, he ought to know perfectly well the char- 
acters of all these heroes, the very same passions 
differing in different heroes as their characters differ. 
The courage of iEneas, for example, of itself was se- 
date and temperate, and always attended with good 
nature ; that of Turmis joined with fury, yet accom- 
panied with generosity and greatness of mind. The 
valour of Mezentius was savage and cruel ; he has 
no fury but fierceness, which is not a passion but 
habit, and nothing but the effect of fury cooled into a 
very keen hatred, and an inveterate malice. Turnus 
seems to fight to appease his anger, Mezentius to 
satisfy his revenge, his malice and barbarous thirst 
of blood. Turnus goes to the field with grief, which 
always attends anger, whereas Mezentius destroys 
with a barbarous joy 5 he is so far from fury, that he. 
is hard to be provoked to common anger ; who calm- 
ly killing Qndes, grows but half angry at his threats : 

" At whom Mezentius amil'd with mingled ire." 

Thus, it is plain, he has not the fury of Turnus, but 
a barbarity peculiar to himself, and a savage fierce- 
ness, according to his character. Virg. B. 10. 

To know these different characters of established 
heroes, the actor need only be acquainted with the 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 47 

poets, who write of them ; if the poet who introduces 
them in his play have not sufficiently distinguished 
thera. But to know the different compositions of the 
manners, and the passions springing from those man- 
ners, he ought to have an insight into moral philoso- 
phy, for they produce various appearances in the 
looks and actions, according to their various mixtures. 
For that the very same passion has various appear- 
ances, is plain from the history painters who have 
followed nature, viz. 

Jordon of Antwerp, in a piece of our Savior's be- 
ing taken from the cross, which is now in his grace 
the Duke of Marlborough's hands, the passion of 
grief is expressed with a wonderful variety ; the 
grief of the Virgin Mother is in all the extremity of 
agony, that is consistent with life ; nay, indeed, that 
scarce leaves auy signs of remaining life in her ; that 
of St. Mary Magdalen is an extreme grief, but min- 
gled with love and tenderness, which she always ex- 
pressed, after her conversion, for our blessed Lord ; 
then the grief of St. John the Evangelist is strong 
but mauly, and mixed with the tenderness of perfect 
friendship ; and, that of Joseph of Arimathea, suita- 
ble to his years and love for Christ, more solemn, 
more contracted in himself, yet forcing an appearance 
in his looks. 

Coypel's sacrifice of Jephtha's daughter, has very 
luckily expressed a great variety of this same pas- 
sion. 

The history painters indeed have observed a de- 
corum in their pieces, which wants to be introduced 



48 THE HISTORY 01-' 

on our stage ; for they never place any person on the 
cloth, who lias not a concern in the actioo. 

All the slaves in Le Brim's tent of Darius, partici- 
pate of the grand concern of Sisigambis, Statira, &c. 
This would render the representation extremely sol- 
emn and beautiful ; but on the stage, not only the su- 
pernumeraries, as they call them, or attendants, seem 
regardless of the great concern of the scene, and, even 
the actors themselves, who are on the stage, and not 
in the very principal parts will be whispering to one 
another, or bowing to their friends in the pit, or gaz- 
ing about. But if they made playing their study, (or 
had indeed a genius to the art) as it is their business, 
they would not only, not be guilty of these absurdi- 
ties, but would, like Le Brim, observe nature where- 
over they found her offer any thing that could contrib- 
ute to their perfection. For this great master was 
often seen to observe a quarrel in the street between 
various people, and therein not only to regard the 
several degrees of the passions of anger rising in the 
affray, and their different recess, but the distinct ex- 
pressions of it in every face that was concerned. 

Our stage, indeed at the best, is but a very cold 
representation, when supported by loud prompting, 
to the great disgust of the audience, and spoiling the 
decorum of what is represented ; for an imperfect ac- 
tor affronts the audience, and betrays his own de- 
merits. I must say this in the praise of Major Mo- 
hun, he is generally perfect, and gives the prompter 
little trouble, and never wrongs the poet by putting 
in any thing of his own 5 a fault which some applaud 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 49 

themselves for, though they deserve a severe punish- 
ment for their equal folly and impudence. They 

forget Hamlet's advice to the players. Let those 

who play your clowns speak no more than is set down 
for them ; for there he of them that will of themselves 
laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to 
laugh too ; though in the mean time some necessary 
question of the play be then to be considered. That's 
villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the 
fool that uses it. This is too frequently done by 
some of our comedians. But it is, I think, an un- 
pardonable fault in a tragedian, who through his im- 
perfectness in his part shall speak ou, any stuff that 
comes in his head, which must infallibly prejudice 
the true expression of the business of the play, let it 
be passion, description, or narration. Though not- 
withstanding this supiuity in general, of too many of 
our modern players, there are some among them who 
are in earnest ; as may, from many instances be point- 
ed out in their respective parts. Among those play- 
ers, who seem always to be in earnest, I must not 
omit the principal, those incomparable performers 
Miss Barry and Miss Bracegirdle ; their action is 
always just, and produced naturally by the senti- 
ments of the part they act, every where observing 
those rules prescribed to the poets by Horace, and 
which equally reach the players. 

We weep and laugh as we see others do, 
He only makes me sad, who shews the way.. 



50 • THE HISTORY OP 

And first is sad himself; then Telephu* 
I feel the weight of your calamities, 
And fancy all your miseries my own ; 
But if you act them ill ! I sleep or laugh. 
Your look must alter as your subject does, 
From kind to fierce, from wanton to serene. 
For nature forms and softeus us within, 
And writes our fortune's changes in our face. 
Pleasure enchants, impetuous rage transports, 
And grief dejects and wrings the tortur'd soul 
And these are all interpreted by speech. 
But he, whose words and fortunes disagree 
Absurd, unpity'd grows a public jest. 



Eoscom. 



The ladies just mentioned, always entered into 
their parts. How often have I heard Miss Barry 
say, that she never spoke these words in the Orphan 
—JUk ! poor Castalio ! — without weeping. Nay, 
I have frequently observed her to change her coun- 
tenance several times, as the discourse of others on 
the stage have affected her, in the part she acted. 
This is being thoroughly concerned, this is to know 
one's part, this is to express the passions in the coun- 
tenance and gesture. 

The stage ought to be the seat of passion in its 
various kinds, and therefore the actors ought to be 
thoroughly acquainted with the whole nature of the 
affections, and habits of the mind, or else they will 
never be able to express them justly in their looks 
and gestures, as well as in the tone of their voice, and 
manner of utterance. They must know them in their 
various mixtures, ao they are differently blended to- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 31 

gether in the different characters they represent ; 
and then that excellent rule, in the Essay on Poetry, 
will be of equal use to the poet and the player. 

Who must look within to find 

Those secret turns of nature in the mind ; 

V, ; ; out this part in vain would be the whole, 

And bat a body all, without a soul. Buck. 



CHAP. V. 

Some account of Miss Guyn, Miss Porter, Miss 
Bradshaw, 8£c. 

Miss Ellen Gtjyn, though mistress to a monarch, 
was the daughter to a Fruiterer in Co vent Garden. 

This shows that Sultans, Emperors and Kings, 
When blood boils high will stoop to meanest things. 

Nelly, for by that name she was universally known, 
came into the Theatre by the way of her profession, 
as a Fruiteress. 

The ©range-basket her fair arm did suit, 

Laden with Pippins and Hesperian fruit, 

This first step rais'd, to th' wond'ring Pit she sold 

The lovely fruit smiling with streaks of gold. 

Fate now for her did its whole force engage, 

And from the Pit she's mounted to the Stage : 

There in full lustre did her glories shine, 

And long eelips'd, spread forth their light divine. 

There Hart's and Rowley's soul she did ensnare, 

And made a King the rival to a play'r. 

Such is Lord Rochester's account : and Mr. Lang- 



53 THE HISTORY OF 

bain* tells us that Miss Ellen Guyn spoke a new 
Prologue to an old play, called The Knight of the 
Burning Pestle. f We find her afterwards acting 
the parts of Almahide in The Conquest of Grenada, 
Florimel in The Maiden Queen, Donna Jacintha in 
The Mock Astrologer, Valeria in The Royal Mar- 
tyr ; in which Tragedy Miss Boutel played the part 
of Saint Catharine. Miss Guyn besides her own 
part of Valeria, was likewise appointed, in that char- 
acter, to speak the Epilogue ; in performing which, 
she so captivated the King, who was present the first 
night of the play, by the humorous turns she gave it, 
that his Majesty, when she had done, went behind 
the scenes and carried her off to an entertainment 
that night. 

In the tragedy of Tyrannic Love, or The Royal 
Martyr, Valeria is daughter to the Roman Emperor 
Maximin ; she being forced by her father to marry 
Placidius, stabs herself for love of Porphyrins, who 
thus condoles her loss. 

Our arms no more let Aquileia fear, 
But to her gates our peaceful Ensigns bear. 
While I mix Cyprus with my Myrtle wreath ; 
Joy for my life, and mourn Valeria's death. 

As Valeria is carrying off the stage dead, she thus 
accosts the bearer. 

Hold, are you mad ? You curst confounded dog, \ 
I am to rise, and speak the Epilogue. 

* See his account of the Dramatic Poets, Svo. p. 310. 
f A comsdy written by Beaumont and Fletcher. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 58 

She then addresses herself to the audience. 

I come, kind Gentlemen, strange news to tell ye, 

I am the Ghost of poor departed Nelly. 

Sweet Ladies be not frighted, I'll be civil, 

I'm 'what I was, a little harmless devil. 

For, after death, we sprites have just such natures 

We had, for all the world, when human creatures ; 

And therefore I, that was an actress here, 

Play all my tricks in hell, a Goblin there. 

Gallants, look to't, you say there are no sprites ; 

But I'll come dance about your beds at nights. 

And faith you'll be in a sweet kind of taking, 

When I surprise you between sleep and waking. 

To tell you true, I walk, because I die 

Out of my calling, in a Tragedy. 

O poet, damn'd dull poet, who could prove 

So senseless ! to make Nelly die for love ; 

Nay, what's yet worse, to kill me in the prime 

Of Easter term, in Tart and Cheese-Cake time ! 

I'll fit the fop ; for I'll not one word say, 

T' excuse his Godly out-of-fashion play. 

A play, which if you dare but twice sit out, 

You'll all be slander'd, and be thought devout. 

But farewell, Gentlemen, make haste to me, 

I'm sure ere long to have your company. 

As for my Epitaph when I am gone, 

I'll trust no poet, but will write my own. 

Here Nelly lies, xvho, though she liv'd a slattern, 

Yet chfd a Princess, acting in Saint Cattern. 

Besides the parts she acted in the foregoiog plays 
of Mr. Dryden, she performed a little song in his 
comedy called the assignation, or Love in a Nun- 
nery, with great archness. The song in this come- 
dy is introduced by a young lady's being asked this 



54 TAR HISTORY OF 

question — " Are you fit, at fifteen, to be trusted witli 
your virtue ? ? Tis as much, child, as your betters can 
manage at full twenty. 

For 'tis of a nature so subtile, 

That if 'tis not luted with care, 
The spirit will work thro' the toil, 

And vanish away into air. 

To keep it, there nothing so hard is, 

'Twill go, hetween waking and sleeping ; 

The simple too weak for a guard is, 

And no wit, would be pl'agu'd with the keeping. 

Nelly was eased of her virtue by Mr. Hart, at the 
same time that Lord Buckhurst sighed for it. But 
his Majesty carrying off the prize, we must leave her 
under the Royal protection. 

The following letter is just come to our hands. 

Sir, 

After the painful warfare of a public life, 
Miss Porter hoped the remainder of it might have 
been passed in silence. But since she finds other- 
wise, and that the true history of the stage is intend- 
ed to convey a just narrative of the dead and the liv- 
ing, by her own consent a succinct but faithful ac- 
count of hers is here transcribed. 

Miss Mary Porter, was the daughter of Mr. 
Charles Porter, but as she lost her father when too 
young to have any knowledge of him, and being sep- 
arated from her mother when but eight years old, she 
did not care to revive so tender a thought, the los* 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 55 

of a parent, as giving her the greatest unhappiness, 
and being able to give no farther aceount of a par- 
ent, than barely his name. 

Her mother marrying Mr. Porter privately with- 
out her parents consent, her father, Mr. Nicholas 
Mercalor, being a German, and a man of letters,, 
went, soon after his daughter's marriage^ disgusted into 
France, and died there. He took with him all his fam- 
ily except his new married daughter and his eldest son, 
Mr. David Mercator, who was then one of the clerks 
belonging to the office of ordnance in the Tower of 
London. This gentleman, after the death of his fath- 
er, took care of his niece without corresponding with 
his sister. For which reason Miss Porter's mother 
removed her from her uncle, and put her into Bar- 
tholomew Fair ; where, the very first time of her ap- 
pearance, in acting the part of the Fairy Queen, 
Miss Barry and Miss Braeegirdle took so great a 
liking to her, that, upon their representation of her 
performance, Mr. Betterton admitted her into the 
Theatre, and they treated her with the most tender 
indulgence. 

Our young Fairy Queen was boarded with Mrs. 
Smith, sister to the Treasurer of the Playhouse, 
whose care of her was maternal, from the particular 
recommendation of her friends, more especially of 
Miss Braeegirdle. 

The death of Mrs. Smith, in a few years, and the 
marriage of her daughter, who was Miss Porter's 
companion, she being then not above fifteen years of 
age, yet thought it proper to take the management of 



56 THE HISTORY OF 

her affairs into her own hands ; and accordingly, as 
I have often heard her most gratefully express, dis- 
charged her debts, though not her obligations, to Mr. 
Smith, for his parternal care of her. 

The veracity of these informations, sir, you may 
depend on, though coming from a friend ; for as Miss 
Porter is not able to give a particular account of her 
family, so she would not by any means appear to be 
the author of her own history. 

Thus heartily wishing you success in your present 
undertaking, and all others, for the public good, I 
am sir, 

Your most humble servant, 

P. M. 

We find by this letter, that the public stand in- 
debted to Miss Barry and Miss Bracegirdle, for this 
excellent actress ; the only living ornament of the 
Tragic scene. 

It was the opinion of a very good judge of Dra- 
matical performers, that another geutlewoman, now 
living, was one of the greatest, and most promising* 
Genij of her time. This Miss Bradshaw, who was 
taken off the stage, for her exemplary and prudent 
conduct, by Martin Folkes, Esq. a gentleman of a 
very considerable estate, who married her ; and such 
has been her behaviour to him, that there is not a 
more happy couple. Miss Bradshaw, discoursing 
with a friend, who was giving her some instructions 
in her profession, told him, that she did all in her 
power to observe a rule laid down by Miss Barry, 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 5? 

<: to make herself mistress of her part, and leave the 
u figure and action to nature/' Now though a great 
genius may do this, yet art must be consulted in the 
study of the larger share of the professors of oratory ; 
for, as Mr. Betterton most judiciously remarks, so 
great a man as Demosthenes perfected himself 
by consulting the gracefulness of the figure in his 
glass ; for to express nature justly, one must be mas- 
ter of nature in all its appearances, which can only 
be drawn from observation, which will tell us, that 
the passions and habits of the mind discover them- 
selves in our looks, aetions and gestures. 

Thus we find a rolling eye, which is quick and in- 
constant in its motion, argues a quick but light wit 5 
a hot and choleric complexion, with an inconstant 
and impatient mind ; and in a woman it gives a strong 
proof of wantonness and immodesty. Heavy dull 
eyes, a dull mind, and a difficulty of conception. 
For this reason we observe, that all or most people 
in years, sick men, and persons of a phlegmatie con- 
stitution are slow in turning of their eyes. 

That extreme propension to winking in some eyes, 
proceed from a soul very subject to fear, arguing a 
weakness of spirit, and a feeble disposition to the 
eye-lids. 

A bold staring eye, which fixes on a man, pro- 
ceeds either from a blockish stupidity, as in rustics ; 
impudence, as in malicious persons ; prudence as in 
those in authority, or incontinence, as in lewd wo- 
men. 

8 



58 THE HISTOJtY OF 

Eyes inflamed and fiery, are the genuine effect of 
choler and anger ; eyes quiet and calm with a secret 
kind of grace and pleasantness are the offspring of 
love and friendship. 

Thus the voice, when loud discovers wrath and 
indignation of mind, and a small trembling voice pro- 
ceeds from fear. 

In like manner, to use no actions or gestures in 
discourse, is a sign of a heavy and slow disposition, 
as too much gesticulation proceeds from lightness : 
and a mean between both is the effect of wisdom and 
gravity ;■ and if it be not too quick, it denotes mag- 
nanimity. Some are perpetually fiddling about their 
cloaths, so that they are scarce dressed till they go 
to bed, which is an argument of a childish and empty 
mind. 

Some cast their heads from one side to the other 
wantonly and lightly, the true effect of folly and in- 
constancy. Others think it essential to prayer, to 
writh and wrest their necks about, which is a proof 
of hypocrisy, superstition, or foolishness. Some are 
wholly taken up in viewing themselves, the propor- 
tion of their limbs, features of their faces, and grace- 
fulness of mein • which proceeds from pride, and a 
vain complaisance in themselves ; of this number are 
coquets. 

In this manner we might examine all the natural 
actions, which are to be found in men of different 
tempers. Yet not to dismiss the point without a ful- 
ler reflection, we shall here give the signification of 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 59 

the natural gestures from the manuscript of a learn- 
ed Jesuit who wrote on this subject. 

Every passion or emotion of the mind, says he, has 
from nature its peculiar and proper countenance, 
sound and gesture ; and the whole body of man, all 
his looks, and every tone of his voice, like strings on 
an instrument, receive their sounds from the various 
impulse of the passions. 

The demission or hanging down of the head is the 
consequence of grief and sorrow. And this there- 
fore is a posture and manner observed in the depre- 
cations of the divine anger, and on such occasions 
ought to be observed in the imitations of those things. 

A lifting or tossing up of the head is the gesture 
of pride and arrogance. Carrying the head aloft is 
the sign of joy, vietory and triumph. 

A hard and bold front or forehead is looked on as 
a mark of obstinacy, contumacy, perfidiousness and 
impudence. 

The soul is the most visible in the eyes, as being, 
according to some, the perfect images of the mind ; 
and as Pliny says, they burn, yet dissolve in floods ; 
they dart their beams on objects, and seem not to see 
them ; and when we kiss the eyes, we seem to touch 
the very soul. 

Eyes lifted on high, shew arrogance and pride, but 
cast down, express humbleness of mind ; yet we lift 
up our eyes when we address ourselves in prayer to 
(*ocl, and ask any thing of him. 

Lifting in vain his burning eyes to heaven. Virg, 



60 THE HISTORY OF 

Denial, aversion, nauseating, dissimulation, and 
neglect, are expressed by a turning away of the eyes. 

A frequent winking, or tremulous motion of the 
eyes, argues malicious manners, and perverse and 
noxious thought and inclinations. 

Eyes drowned in tears discover the most vehement 
and cruel grief, whieh is not capable of ease even 
from tears themselves. 

To raise our eyes to any thing or person, is an ar« 
gument of our attention to them with desire. 

The hand put on the mouth is a token of silence 
by conviction, and is a ceremony of the heathen ado- 
ration. 

The contraction of the lips, and the ascaunt look of 
the eyes, expresses the gesture of a deriding and ma- 
licious person. Shewing the teeth, and straitening 
the lips on them, shews indignation and anger. 

Turning the whole face to any thing, is the gesture 
of him, who attends and has a peculiar regard to that 
one thing. To bend the countenance downward ar- 
gues consciousness and guilt ; and, on the contrary, 
to lift up the face is a sign of a good conscience or 
innocence, hope and confidence. 

The countenance, indeed, is changed into many 
forms, and is commonly the most certain index of the 
passions of the mind. When it is pale it betrays 
grief, sorrow and fear ; and envy, when it is very 
strong. A lowring and dark visage is the index of 
misery, labour and vehement agitations of the soul. 

The countenance, as Qnintilian observes, is of 
Very great power and force in all that we do. In 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 61 

this we discover when we are suppliant, when men- 
acing, when kind, when sorrowful, when merry ; in 
this we are lifted up and cast down ; on this men de- 
pend, this they behold, and this they first take a view 
of before we speak ; by this we love some, and hate 
others ; and by this we understand a multitude of 
things. 

The arm extended and lifted up, signifies the pow- 
er of doing and accomplishing something ; and is the 
gesture of authority, vigour and victory. On the 
contrary, the holding your arms close is a sign of 
bashfulness, modesty and diffidence. 

As the hands are the most habil members of the 
body, and the most easily turned to all sides, so are 
they the indexes of many habits. 

As we have two hands, the right and the left, we 
sometimes make use of one, sometimes of the other, 
and sometimes of both, to express the passion and 
habit. The chief forms of which I shall mention. 

Lifting of one hand upright 9 or extending it, ex- 
presses force, vigour and power. The right hand is 
also extended upwards as a token of swearing, or 
taking a solemn oath ; and this extension of the hand 
sometimes signifies pacification, and desire of silence. 

Flitting of the hand to the mouth, is the habit of 
one that is silent, and acting modesty : of admira 
tion and consideration. The giving the hand is the 
gesture of striking a bargain, confirming an alliance, 
or of delivering one's self into the power of another. 
To take hold of the hand of another expresses admo 



62 



THE HISTORY OF 



nition, exhortation and encouragement. The reaching 
out an -<haml to another implies help and assistance. 
The lifting up both hands on high is the habit of one 
who implores, and expresses his misery. And the 
lifting up of both hands sometimes signifies congratu- 
lation to heaven for a deliverance, as in Virgil : 

His hands, now free from bands, he lifts on high, 
In grateful action to th' indulgent Gods. 

Holding the hands in the bosom is the habit of the 
idle and negligent. Clapping the hands, among the 
Hebrews, signified deriding, insulting, and explod- 
ing ; but among the Greeks and the Homans, it was, 
on the contrary, the expression of applause. The 
imposition of hands signifies the imparting a power 
in consecrating of victims. 

" It is a difficult matter, says Quintilian, to relate 
" what a number of motions the hands have, without 
" which all action would be maimed and lame, since 
" these motions are almost as various as the words we 
" speak. For the other parts may be said to help a 
"man when he speaks, but the hands (as I may say) 
" speak themselves. Do we not by the hands desire 
" a thing ? Do we not by these promise ? call ? dis- 
"miss? threaten? act the suppliant? express our 
" abomination or abhorrence ? our fear? By these do 
"we not ask questions? deny? show our joy, grief, 
i{ doubt, confession, penitence, moderation, plenty, 
•*' number and time ? Do not the same hands provoke, 
-•forbid, make supplication, approve, admire, and 
" express shame ? Do they not in showing of places 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. f)3 

u and persons, supply the place of the adverbs and 
"pronouns? Insomuch that in so great a variety or 
" diversity of the tongues of all nations, this seems to 
"remain the universal language common to all." 

It were to be wished that this art were a little re- 
vived in our age, when such useful members, which 
of old contributed so much to the expression of words, 
should now puzzle our players what to do with them, 
when they seldom or never add any grace to the ac- 
tion of the body, and never almost, any thing to th& 
explanation or fuller expression of the words and 
passions. To proceed a little farther. 

Stamping the feet, among the Hebrews signified 
derision and scoffing. Among the Greeks, &e. im- 
periousness. A constant and direct foot, is the index 
of a steady, certain, constant and right study and aim 
of our designs. 

On the contrary, feet full ofmotion, are the habit, 
of the inconstant and fluctuating in their counsels and 
resolves. And the Greeks thought this in women a 
sign of a flagitious temper. 

Thus have I recited the Jesuit's observations on 
the gestures and positions of the several parts and 
members of the body. And though some of them may 
seem too particular, yet I am persuaded, that a per^ 
son of true judgment may And many excellences in 
them, whieh may afford him great helps in the ren- 
dering his gestures beautiful and expressive. There 
is no greater proof of this, than the example I have 
already urged of the Pantomime and Demetrius the 



48 HIE HISTORY OF 

Cynic Philosopher, who cried outfcolriui. I hear, my 
friend, what you act ; nor do I only see them, but 
methinks you speak with your hands. But this speak- 
ing with the hands, (as it is here called) I find con- 
tain a great deal of the representing of the dancing 
dumb shows of the Mimes and Pantomimes. It may 
be perhaps objected, that these motions of the hands 
were so well known to the frequenters of the Thea- 
tres, that, like our talking on our fingers with those, 
who understand it, there would be no difficulty in the 
representation ; but that if any stranger or foreigner 
should have been there, it would have been nothing 
but an unintelligible gesticulation, and wliat Shake- 
speare calls it, unexjilicable dumb shows ; whereas if 
these actions and gestures were drawn from their 
natural signiiieancy, according to those marks I have 
already given, or others referred to by my quotation 
of Quintilian, they must be intelligible to all nations, 
on first sight to Barbarians, who never saw them 
before, as well as to Greeks and Romans, who con- 
versed with them every day. 

I allow the objection, but shall remove it by a far- 
ther account of the very same Pantomime, who lived 
in the time of Nero : The story is this — Ci A Barba- 
" rian Prince who came from Ponius to Rome, on a 
u visit to Nero, among other en tain men ts saw this 
u dancer personate so lively, that though he knew 
l( nothing of what was sung, being half a Grecian, 
" yet he understood all. Being therefore to return 
" to Iris country after this entertainment of Nero's 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 65 

u and bid ask what lie would and it should be grant. 
" ed, replied, give me the dancer, and you will infi- 
" nitely oblige me. Nero asking him of what use he 
" would be to him? My neighbor Barbarians (says 
" lie) are of different languages, nor is it easy for me 
" to find interpreters for them ; this fellow therefore, 
u as often as I have need, shall expound to me by 
(i his gestures." So clear and intelligible were his 
actions and gestures, and so derived from the nature 
of the thing represented ; which is a proof, that there 
are certain natural significations of the motions of the 
hands, and other members of the body, which are ob- 
vious to the understanding of the sensible men of all 
nations. If those which I have given you from my 
Jesuit be not, yet I am very sure, that many of them 
are explained by him, which will be plain to a seri- 
ous observer. 

Gesture has therefore this advantage above mere 
speaking, that by this we are understood by those of 
our own language, but by action and gesture (I mean 
just and regular action) we make our thoughts and 
passions intelligible to all nations and tongues. It 
is, as I have observed from Quintilian, the common 
speech of all mankind, which strikes our understand- 
ing by our eyes, as effectually as speaking does by 
the ears 5 nay, perhaps, makes the more effectual im- 
pression, that sense being the most vivacious and 
touching, according to Horace in his Art of Poetry : 

But what we hear moves less, than what we see j 
Spectators only have their eyes to trust. Roscom. 

9 



65 THE HISTORY GF 

I think we have already assigned tolerable reasons 
why movement and action should teach us so sensi- 
bly ; nay, the very representation of them in painting 
often strikes the passions, and makes impressions on 
our minds more strong and vivid, than all the force 
of words. The chief work is certainly done by speech 
in most other ways of public discourse, either at the 
Bar, or in the Pulpit ; where the weight of the rea- 
son and the proof are first and most to be considered : 
But on the stage, where the passions are chiefly in 
view, the best speaking destitute of action and ges- 
ture (the life of all speaking) proves but a heavy, 
dull, and dead discourse. 

This, in some measure, will likewise reach all 
things delivered in public, since we find Pliny the 
younger talking of people in his days reciting of their 
speeches or poems, either by reading them themselves, 
or by having them read by others, tell us, that this 
reading them was a very great disadvantage to the 
excellence of their performance either way, lessening 
both their eloquence and character, since the princi- 
pal helps of pronunciation, the eyes and the hands, 
could not perform their ©nice, being otherwise em- 
ployed to read, and not adorn the utterance with 
their proper motions ; insomuch that it was no man- 
ner of wonder, that the attention of the audience grew 
languid on so unactive an entertainment. On the 
contrary, when any discourse receives force and life, 
not only from the propriety and graces of speaking 
agreeable to the subject, but from a proper action 
and gesture for it, it is truly moving, penetrating, 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 67 

transporting ; it lias a soul, it has life, it has vigour 
and energy not to he resisted. For then the player, 
the preacher or pleader, holds his audience hy the 
eyes, as well as ears, and engrosses their attention 
by a double force. This seems to be well represent- 
ed in some words of Cicero to Cecilius a young ora- 
tor, in his first cause, who would needs undertake 
the action against Verres,in opposition to Hortensius. 
After he has shown his incapacity in many points to 
accuse Verres, both in ability, and in not being free 
from a suspicion of a share in the guilt, he comes at 
last to the power and art of his adversary. Horten- 
sius, (says he) reflect, consider, again and again 
what you are going to do ! for there seems to me to be 
some danger not only of his oppressing you with his 
words, but even of his confounding and dazzling the 
eyes of your understanding with his gesture, and the 
motion of his body, and so entirely drive you from 
your design, and from all your thoughts. 

Cicero, in his books of oratory, tells us, that Cras- 
s.us pleading against Brutus, delivered his words 
with such an accent and such a gesture, that he per- 
fectly confounded the latter, and pat him out of coun- 
tenance, fixing his eyes stedfastly on him, and ad- 
dressing all his action to him, as if he would devour 
him with a look and a word. 

But to make these motions of the face and hands 
easily understood, that is, useful in moving the pas- 
sions of the auditors, or rather spectators, they must 
be properly suited to the thing you speak of, your 
thoughts and design ; and always resembling the 



OS THE HISTORY OF 

passion you would express or excite. Thus you 
must never speak of mournful things with a gay and 
brisk look, nor affirm any thing with the action of de- 
nial ; for that would make what you say of no man- 
ner of authority or credit ; you would gain neither 
belief nor admiration. You must also have a pecu- 
liar care of avoiding all manner of affectation in your 
action and gesture, for that is most commonly ridicu- 
lous and odious, unless where the actor is to express 
some affectation in the character he represents, as in 
Melantha in Marriage Ma-mode, and Millimant in 
The Way of the World. But even then that very 
affectation must be unaffected, as those two parts 
were admirably performed by Miss Mountfort and 
Miss Bracegirdle. But your action must appear 
purely natural, as the genuine offspring of the things 
you express, and the passion which moves you to 
speak in that manner. 

In fine, the player, pleader or preacher must have 
such nice address in the management of his ges- 
tures, that there may be nothing in all the various 
motions and dispositions of his body which may be 
offensive to the eye of the spectator ; as well as noth- 
ing grating and disobliging to the ears of his auditors, 
in his pronunciation 5 else will his person be less a- 
greeable, and his speech less efficacious to both, by 
wanting all that grace, virtue and power it would 
otherwise obtain. 

It is true, it must be confessed, that the art of ges- 
ture seems more difficult to be obtained, than the art 
of speaking ; because a man's own ear may be judge 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. ' 6«J 

of the voice and its several variations, but cannot see 
his face at all, and the motion of the other parts of 
the body but very imperfectly. Demosthenes, as 
we have said, to make a true judgment how far his 
face and limbs moved and kept to the rules of good 
action and gesture, set before him a large looking- 
glass sufficient to represent the whole body at one 
view, to direct him iu distinguishing between right 
and wrong, decent and indecent actions ; but yet. 
though this might not be uniiseftil, it lies under this 
disadvantage, that it represents to the right what is 
on the left, and on the left what is on the right hand ; 
so that when you make a motion with your right 
hand, the reflection makes it seem as done by the 
left, which confounds the gesture, and gives it an 
aukward appearance. But to rectify these erroneous 
motions from the glass, by changing hands, might 
contract such an ill habit, as ought with the utmost 
caution to be avoided. 

Gesture on the stage was never better observed, 
than by that excellent Comedian Mr. Lacy. And 
in this very particular action Mr. Betterton used oft- 
en to acknowledge his obligations to Mr. Taylor of 
the Black Friars Company, and to Mr. Lowen, sen. 
the former, being instructed in the character of Ham- 
let, and the latter in that of Henry VIII. by Shake- 
speare himself ; these, says he, being my two ever 
honored masters in those parts. But here we must 
lament the great loss our English stage sustained iii 
the untimely death of Mr. William Betterton, wlic 
was drowned in swimming at Wallingford in Berk 



70 THE HISTORY OF 

shire, otherwise the merits of his father might have 
longer continued amongst us. 

We shall close this chapter with the short account 
left us of that memorable Comedian above mentioned. 

Mr. John Lacy was a native of Yorkshire, born 
near Doncaster. He was bred in the profession of 
a dancing master, but pursuing some military views, 
he became a Lieutenant and Quarter Master under 
Colonel Gerrard. He was a well shaped man, of a 
noble stature, and justly proportioned. What brought 
him upon the stage, we cannot determine ; but a rep- 
utable writer assures us, that as Mr. Betterton has 
observed,* ei He was a Comedian whose abilities in 
u action were sufficiently known to all who frequent- 
" ed the King's Theatre. He performed all the 
(i parts he undertook to a miracle, in so much that 
"as the age he lived in never had, so, I am apt to 
4( believe, no other will ever have his equal, at least 
" not his superior. He was so well approved of by 
" king Charles IT. an undeniable judge in dramatic 
<c arts, that he caused his picture to be drawn in three 
" characters in one and the same piece, (Teague, in 
" the Committee ; Mr. Scruple, in the Cheats ; and 
" Monsieur Gralliard, in the Variety ;) now in the 
" Royal Palace of Windsor Castle. Nor did his 
" talent wholly lie in acting, he knew both how to 
" judge and write plays, and is the author of three 
" Comedies. 

I. " The Dumb Lady ; or, The Farrier made 
l( Physician. Taken from Le Medicin malgre lay. 

* Landmine, in his account of the Ens;. Dram. Poets, p. 317. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 71 

"' Whoever will compare them together, will find that 
" Mr. Lacy has greatly improved Moliere. 

II. " The Old Troop / or, Monsieur Eagou. — 
" Taken likewise as I conjecture, from the French. 
" Both these plays were acted with universal ap- 

" plause. 

III. " Sir Hercules Buffon ; or, The Poetical 

<e Squire. This play was brought upon the stage, 
<( after the author's decease, 1684. In the Prologue, 
" spoken by Jo. Haines, were these lines, 

Know that fam'd Lacy, ornament o' th' stage, 

That standard of Comedy, in oar age ; 

Wrote this play : 

And if it takes not, all we can say on't, 

Is, we've his fiddle, not his hand to play on't. 

This Comedy was very well received. 



CHAP. VI. 

The Amour of the Duchess of Cleveland, and Mr. 
Goodman, &fe. 

As Mr. Hart was rival to Lord Buckhurst, and 
the King, in the first affections of Miss Gruyn ; it 
likewise so happened, that Mr. Goodman the player, 
was another of his Majesty's rivals in the esteem of 
the Duchess of Cleveland. 

The late famous Mrs. Manley, author of the Sta- 
lantis, has in the account of her' life,* given a rela- 

*See Mrs. Manley's Life., Svo. p. 31, &e. printed far E. Gurll. 



73 THE H1ST0HY OF 

tion of her own adventures under the name of Rivel- 
la, and drawn the character of the Duchess of Cleve- 
land under that of Hilaria. The Duchess was pas- 
sionately fond of new faces, of which sex soever : 
and used a thousand arguments to dissuade Rivella 
from wearing away her bloom in grief and solitude. 
She read her learned lectures upon the ill nature of 
the world, that would never restore a woman's repu- 
tation, how innocent soever she really were, if appear- 
ances proved to be against her ; therefore Hilaria 
gives Rivella this advice, w r hich she did not disdain 
to practice, viz. To make herself as happy as she 
could, without valuing or regretting those, by whom 
it ivas impossible to be valued. 

Hivella has often declared, that from Hilaria she 
received the first ill impressions of Count Fortu- 
natus,* touching his ingratitude, immorality and av- 
arice ; being herself an eye witness when he denied 
Hilaria (who had given him thousands) the common 
civility of lending her twenty guineas at Basset ; 
which together with betraying his master, and rais- 
ing himself by his sister's dishonor, she had always 
esteemed a just and flaming subject for satire. 

Rivella had now reigned six months ia Hilaria' s 
favour, an age to one of her inconstant temper ; when 
that lady found out a new face, to which the old must 
give place ; and such a one of whom she could not 
justly have any jealousy in point of youth or agreca- 
bleuess ; the person I speak of was the pretended 

* Late Duke of M».**»*« 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. ?' 

Madam Beauclair, a kitchen maid, married to her 
master, who had been refuged with King James in 
France. 

This pretended French lady Beauclair plyed at 
Madam Mazarin's Basset Table, and was also of 
use to her in love affairs. 

As t© the character of Hilaria, she was querilous, 
fierce, loquacious ; excessively fond, or imfamously 
rude ; the extremes of prodigality, and covetousness ; 
of love and hatred ; of dotage and aversion, were 
joined together in ber soul. 

The whole court and city knew that the man Hil- 
aria was in love with was Mr. Goodman the player, 
for his fine person and graceful mien ; he being the 
second rival in the favour of two of the royal mis- 
tresses. As Mr. Goodman and Mr. Hart equally 
captivated the ladies on the stage, it is not matter of 
any admiration, that they should equally charm in 
more delightful recesses : For, 

In love and death, such is the human frame. 
The monarch and the mimic are the same. 

Mr. Pope has thus recorded female luxury and its 
extravagances ; not forgetting Hilaria : 

Con Philips cries, a sneaking dog Jhate t 
That's all three lovers have for their estate ! 
Treat on, treat on, is her eternal note, 
And lands and tenements go down her throat. 
Not so who often thousand gull'd her Knight, 
Then ask'd ten thousand for a second night j 
10 



THE IllSTOItY OF 

Tlie gallant loo, to whom she paid it down, 
Liv'd to refuse that mistress half a crown.* 

The gallant here referred to by the satirist was the 
same person shadowed by Rivella under the charac- 
ter of Count Fortunatus, whose predominant vices of 
ingratitude and avarice will never be obliterated. 

From these scenes of love and gallantry, let us 
return once more to the scenes of the drama. 

We shall here lay down some particular rules of 
action 5 which justly weighed, will be of use to the 
Bar and the Pulpit, as well as the stage, provided, 
that the student allows a more strong, vivid and vio- 
lent gesture to the plays, than to either of the other. 

We shall therefore begin with the government, or- 
der and balance, of the whole body ; and thence pro- 
ceed to the regiment and proper motions of the head, 
the eyes, the eye-brows, and indeed the whole face : 
then conclude with the actions of the hands, more 
copious and various than all the other parts of the 
body. 

The place and posture of the body ought not to be 
changed every moment, since so fickle an agitation 
is trifling and light ; nor, on the other hand, should 
it always keep the same position, fixed like a pillar 
or marble statue. For this^ in the first place, is un- 
natural, and must therefore be disagreeable, since 
God has so formed the body with members disposing 
it to motion, that it must move either as the impulse 
of the mind direets, or as the necessary occasions of 

* The Duchess of Cleveland and Duke of M***** 



i 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 75 

Hie body require. This heavy stability, or thought- 
less fixedness, by losing that variety, which is so be- 
coming of, and agreeable in the change and diversity 
of speech and discourse, and gives admiration to ev- 
ery thing it adorns, loses likewise that genteelness 
and grace, which engages the attention by pleasing 
the eye. Being taught to dance will very much con- 
tribute in general to the graceful motion of the 
whole body, especially in motions, that are not im- 
mediately embarrassed with the passions. 

That the head has various gestures and signs, in- 
timations and hints, by which it is capable of ex- 
pressing consent, refusal confirmation, admiration, 
anger, &c. is what every one knows, who has ever 
considered at all. It might therefore be thought su- 
perfluous to treat particularly of them. But this rule 
may be laid down on this head in general ; first that 
it ought not to be lifted up too high, and stretched 
out extravagantly, which is the mark of arrogance 
and haughtiness ; but an exception to this rule will 
come in for the player, who is to act a person of that 
character. Nor on the other side should it be hung 
down upon the breast, which is both disagreeable to 
the eye, in rendering the mien clumsy and dull ; and 
would prove extremely prejudicial to the voice, de- 
priving it of its clearness, distinction, and that intel- 
ligibility, which it ought to have. Nor should the 
head always lean towards the shoulders, which is 
equally rustic and affected, or a great mark of indif- 
ference, languidness, and a faint inclination. But 
the head, in all the cafmer speeches at least, ought 



76 THE HISTORY OF 

to be kept in its just natural state and upright posi- 
tion. In the agitation indeed of a passion, the posi- 
tion will naturally follow the several accesses and 
recesses of the passion, whether grief, anger, &c. 

We must farther observe, that the head must not 
be kept always like that of a statue without motion ; 
nor must it on the contrary be moving perpetually, 
and always throwing itself about on every different 
expression. It must therefore shun these ridiculous 
extremes, turn gently on the neck, as often as occa- 
sion requires a motion, according to the nature of the 
thing, turning now to one side, and then to another, 
and then return to such a deeent position, as your 
voice may best be heard by all or the generality of 
the audience. The head ought always to be turned 
on the same side, to which the actions of the rest of 
the body are directed, except when they are employ- 
ed to express our aversion to things, we refuse ; or on 
things we detest and abhor ; for these things we re- 
ject with the right hand, at the same time turning the 
head away to the left. 

But the greatest life and grace of action derive 
themselves from the face. For this reason, Crassus 
in Cicero remarks, that Itoscius, though so excellent 
a player, lost his admiration among the Romans on 
the stage, because .the mask he wore denied the au- 
dience the sight of those motions and attractive charms 
which were to be discovered in the countenance. 
Some have been extremely surprised at the ancients 
use of those masks on the stage, which they called 
the Personte ! nor is it easy to imagine how they were 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 75 

made, not to destroy that grace and beauty of acting 
in the management of the lineaments of the face, 
whieh by all that we have of that kind must be en- 
tirely hid ; and yet what Plutarch tells us of Demost- 
henes and Cicero, is a proof, that the players of 
Athens aod Rome were absolute masters of speaking 
and action. It is true, there is much in the voice to 
express the passion artfully, yet certainly the several 
figurations of the countenance, as of the eyes, broiv, 
mouth, and the like, add the most touching and the 
most moving beauties. But this observation before 
mentioned sufficiently proves, that those were entire- 
ly lost by the Personce; which is a proof, that in 
whatever they excelled our actors, we have the ad- 
vantage in the making the representation perfect, by 
enjoying the benefit of exposing all the motions of the 
face. 

The character which Lucian gives of those Per so n ce 
makes them extremely redieulous, and by his de- 
scription of the rest of the Tragic equipage, would 
make us very much doubt their excellence in other 
parts of acting.* " What a deformed and frightful 
" sight is it, to see a man raised to a prodigious 
ii length, stalking on exalted buskins, his face dis- 
66 guised with a grim vizor, widely gaping, as if he 
" meant to devour the spectators ; I forbear to speak 
t( of his stuffed breasts and fore-bellies, which make 
■" an adventitious and artificial corpulency, lest his 
" unnatural length should carry a disproportion to 
M his slenderness. 

* See Dr. Maync's translation of Lneiar«. 



78 THE HISTORY Of 

Surely such a figure as Lucian gives the Tragedi- 
an, must not only render him incapable of giving the 
tody all its just motions and graceful gestures, of 
which we are talking, and which the great writers 
celebrate so much ; but must be ridiculous to a farce. 
But though what Lucian represents, may be looked 
upon as in the time of the corruption of the Roman 
stage, yet the Cothurni and the Personce were in use 
among the Greeks, and must have been extremely 
prejudicial to the beauty of the representation. The 
reason given for the first Avas the common opinion, 
that the heroes of former times were larger and taller* 
than our coteniporaries ; and it is probable that the 
first use of the vizor, which succeeded the besmearing 
the face with lees of wine in the time of Thespis, 
was chiefly to express the looks and countenance, 
of the several heroes represented, according to their 
statues and portraitures, which made the players al- 
ways new to the audience ; whereas we coming al- 
ways on the stage with the, same face, put a force on 
the imagination of the audience to fancy us other 
than the same persons. But there is a method, which 
if maturely studied, would obtain this variety of 
countenance more artfully, and at the same time in- 
spire the actor better with the nature and genius of 
his part. In a French book written by one Gafferel 
a Monk, he tells us, that when he was at Rome he 
went to see Cainpanella in the Inquisition, and found 
him paking abundance of faces ; which he at first 
imagined, proceeded from the torments he had un- 
dergone : but ho soon undeceived him by inquiring 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 79 

what sort of countenance such a Cardinal had, to 
whom he had just before sent ; for he was forming 
his countenance, as much as he could, to what he 
knew of his, that lie might know what his answer 
would be. 

If therefore a player, was acquainted with the char- 
acter of his hero, so far as to have an account of his 
features and looks, or of any one living of the same 
character, he would not only vary his face so much 
by that means, as to appear quite another face, by 
raising, or falling, contracting, or extending the 
brows ; giving a brisk or sullen, sprightly or heavy 
turn to his eyes ; sharpening or swelling his nostrils, 
and the various positions of his mouth, which by 
practice would grow familiar, and wonderfully im- 
prove the art of acting, and raise the noble diversion 
to greater esteem. The studying History Painting 
would be very useful on this occasion, because the 
knowledge of the figure and lineaments of the per- 
sons represented will teach the actor to vary and 
change his figure, which would make him not always 
the same in all parts, but his very countenance so 
changed, that they would not only have other thoughts 
themselves, but raise others in the audience. Some 
carry their heads aloft and stately, others pucker 
their brows, look with a piercing eye, as we have 
said ; and these things thoroughly considered by the 
player, v/ould in every part make him a new man ; 
and witli more beauty supply the Personce of the 
ancients, and raise our stage to a greater merit, than 
theirs could pretend to, which deprived the. audience 



THE HISTORY OF 



80 

of the noblest and most vivacious part of the repre- 
sentation/in the loss of the motions of the face; ot 
which we ought to take a peculiar care, since it is on 
that, which the audience or spectators generally nx 
their eves the whole time of the action. 

Exercise and frequent practice ought to reform the 
lca«t error in this particular, because in the perform- 
ance every one presently discovers it, though the ac- 
tor sees it not himself. The surest way of correct- 
in"- this, is either a looking glass, or a judicious 
friend, who can and will let you know what counte 
nance is agreeable, and what the contrary. But thi 
is a general rule, without any exception, that you ad 
just all the lines and motions of the face to the sub- 
ject of your discourse, the passion you feel within 
you, or should according to your part feel, or would 
raise in those who hear and see you. You must like- 
wise consider the quality you represent, as well as 
the quality of those to whom you speak ; for even m 
great degrees of tlie passions the difference and dis- 
tance of that has a greater or less awe upon the very 
appearance of the passion. The countenance must 
be brightened witb a pleasant gaiety on things that 
are agreeable, and that according to the degrees of 
their being so ; and likewise in joy, which must still 
be heightened in the passion of love ; though indeed 
the countenance in the expression of this passion is 
extremely various, participating sometimes of the 
transports of joy, sometimes of the agonies of grief: 
it is sometimes mingled with the heats of anger, and 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 81 

sometimes smiles with all the pleasing tranquillity of 
an equal joy. Sadness or gravity must prevail in 
the countenance, when the suhject is grave, melan- 
choly or sorrowful ; and grief is to he expressed ac- 
cording to its various degrees of violence. Hate has 
its peculiar expression composed of grief, envy, and 
auger, a mixture of all which ought to appear in the 
eye. When you bring or offer comfort, mildness and 
affability ought to be seen in your countenance, as se- 
verity should, when you censure or reprehend. 

It is not in the least to be doubted, but that sever- 
al other gentlemen of the stage have taken their turns 
among the court ladies, as well as Mr. Hart and Mr. 
Goodman. However, Ave shall drop that inquiry, 
and resume the subject of their Theatrical excellen- 
ces. 

I have heard Mr. Betterton mention these parts as 
some of Mr. Hart's shining characters ; Arbaces, in 
King and no King ; Amintor, in The Maid's Trag- 
edy ; Rollo Duke of Normandy ; Brutus, in Julius 
Cesar ; Othello and Alexander the Great. In this 
last character he appeared with such majesty in his 
looks and gesture, that a Courtier of the first rank 
was pleased to honour him with this commendation, 
Hart, says he, might teach any King on earth how to 
comport himself. He was no less inferior in Come- 
dy. In the parts of Mosca, in Valjpone ; Don John, 
in the Chances ; Wildblood, in the Mock Astrologer ', 
&c. In all the tragic and comic parts he performed 
he arrived to a pitch not equalled by any of his co- 
temporaries, nor attainable by his successors. !But 
11 



82 THE HISTORY OF 

Mr. Betterton, and Major Moliun may be said to 
have been the two Socias. Par Nobile Fratrum, 
as to their justness of acting. The latter shone in 
the parts of Valpone ; Face, in the Alchymist ; Me- 
lantius, in The Maid's Tragedy; Mordonius, in 
King and no King ; Cassius, in Julius Cesar ; Cly- 
tus, in Alexander the Great; Mithridates King of 
Pontus ; in performing which part, Mr. Lee cried 
out, in the greatest extacy, O Mohun, Mohun ! thou 
little man of mettle, were I to write a hundred plays 
thou shouldst be in them all. 

Many were the good actors of those days, whose 
excellences to enumerate would be an endless task, 
for which reason it is sufficient to have mentioned 
some of the principal. Mr. Betterton likewise suc- 
ceeded in Major Mohun's parts. 

Mr. Kynaston was so famous for women's parts, 
that lie played Artihope, in The Unfortunate Lov- 
ers ; the Princess, in The Mad Lover ; Ismenia, in 
The Maid in the Mill ; JLglauria, &c. being parts so 
greatly moving compassion, that it has been disputed 
among the judicious, whether any woman could have 
more sensibly touched the passions. 

The play called Love and Honour, written by Sir 
William D'Avenant, was acted before the Court, and 
Very richly drest. The King gave Mr. Betterton, 
who played Prince Alvaro, his coronation suit. And 
to Mr. Harris who played Prince Prospero, the Duke of 
York gave his suit. And to Mr. Price, who acted Lio- 
nel Duke of Parma, the Lord Oxford gave his cloaths. 
Miss Davenport an excellent actress played Evandra. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 83 

Among the many fine players of this age Mr. 
Sandford must be remembered, and sorry we are, 
that we can obtain no other notices of him than what 
we find among the Dramatis Per8once perfixed to the 
plays wherein he acted. 

Mr. Betterton brought three plays himself upon 
the stage. 

I. The Woman made a Justice. In this Comedy 
Miss Long, a fine actress, played the part of the 
Justice. 

II. The Unjust Judge ; or, Afpias and Virginia, 
a Tragedy. Mr. Betterton, played Virginius and 
his wife Virginia. 

III. The Amorous Widow ; or, the Wanton Wife. 
In this Comedy Mr. Nokes played Sir Barnaby Brit- 
tle, and Miss Long, Mrs. Brittle, in which part Miss 
Bracegirdle succeeded her. 

All these plays were well received ; but the last 
only is preserved, the first and second being lost. 

We must here observe, that notwithstanding Mr. 
Otway and Mr. Lee had very strong inclinations to 
come upon the stage, yet both these gentlemen found 
writing and playing so widely different, that they 
were each of them dashed in their first attempt. 

The stage having worn out the reign of its royal 
master King Charles II. and the kingdom having 
undergone the grand revolution occasioned by the 
abdication of King James, we shall now give an ac- 
count of the state of the Theatre under King William 
and Queen Mary. 

A great difference happening between the United 



84 THE HISTORY OF 



Patentees of King Charles's and the Duke of York's 
Companies after the Revolution, the chief actors, viz. 
Mr. Betterton and his friends, together with Miss 
Barry, Miss Braeegirdle, &c. represented the great 
oppression they lay under, in a petition to the right 
honorable Charles Earl of Dorset, &c. then Lord 
Chamberlain of the household. This generous no- 
bleman believing their complaints to be just, did, 
with the assistance of Sir Robert Howard, procure 
for them of their Majesties a separate license, consti- 
tuting Mr, Congreve, Mr. Betterton, Miss Barry and 
Miss Braeegirdle Patentees. By this authority they 
formed a select Company, and metamorphosing the 
Tennis Court in Lincoln's -Inn-Fields, opened their 
new Theatre the last day of April 1695, with a Com- 
edy written by Mr. Congreve, called, Love for Love. 

In this company were Mr. Smith, Mr. Sandford, 
Mr. Underhill, Mr. Dogget, Mr. Verbruggen, Mr. 
Powell, Mr. Mountfort, Mr. Johnson, Mr. Penketh- 
man, Mr. Bullock, Mr, Booth, &c. 

We shall, for some time, leave these gentlemen in 
the discharge of their profession, and resume the far- 
ther instructions of Mr. Betterton for attaining the 
oratory of the Stage, the Bar and the Pulpit. 

The management of the eyes in an orator at the 
Bar, or in the Pulpit, seems something different, from 
what they must be in a player, though if we 
make the rest of the actors on the stage with him at 
the same time, his auditors, the rules for one will 
reach the other ; for so indeed they are, for all the 
regard that is to be had to the audience is that they 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. S3 

see and hear distinctly, what we act and what we 
speak ; that they may judge justly of our positions, 
gestures and utterance, in regard to each other. 

The orator therefore must always be casting his 
eyes on some or other of his auditors, and turning 
them gently from side to side with an air of regard, 
sometimes on one person, and sometimes on another, 
and not fix them immoveahly on one part of the au- 
dience, which is extremely unaffecting and dull, much 
less moving, than when we look them decently in 
the face, as in common discourse. This will hold 
good in playing, if applied according to my former 
rule ; for indeed I have observed frequently some 
players, who pass for great ones, have their eyes 
lifted up to the galleries, or top of the house, when 
they are engaged in a discourse of some heat, as if 
indeed they were conuing a lesson, not acting a part. 
Theophrastns himself condemned Tamariscus, a 
player of his time, who whenever he spoke on the 
stage, turned his eyes from those who were to hear 
him, and kept them fixed ail the while on one single 
and insensible object. But nature *cts directly in n 
contrary manner, and yet she ought to be the player's 
as well as the Poet's mistress. No man is engaged 
in dispute, or any argument of moment, but his eyes 
and all his regard are fixed on the person he^ talk* 
with ; not but that there are times according to the turn 
or crisis of a passion, where the eyes may with great 
beauty be turned from the object we address to sev- 
eral ways, as in appeals to heaven, imploring assist 
ance, to join in your addresses to any one, and the like 



8(5 THE HISTORY OF 

Wlieu we are free from passion, and in any dis- 
course which requires ho great motion, as our mod- 
ern Tragedies too frequently suffer their chief parts 
to be, our aspect should be pleasant, our looks direct, 
neither severe nor aside, unless we fall into a pas- 
sion, which requires the contrary. For then nature, 
if we obey her summons, will alter our looks and 
gestures. Thus when a man speaks in anger, his 
imagination is inflamed, and kindles a sort of fire in 
his eyes, which sparkles from them in such a man- 
ner, that a stranger, who understood not a word of 
the language, or a deaf man, who could not hear the 
loudest tone of his voice, would not fail of perceiving 
his fury and indignation. And this fire of their eyes 
will easily strike those of their audience which are 
continually fixed on yours ; and by a strange sympa- 
thetic infection, it will set them on fire too with the 
very same passion. 

I would not be misunderstood, when I say you 
must wholly place your eyes on the person or per- 
sons you are engaged with on the stage ; I mean, 
that at the same*time both parties keep such a posi- 
tion in regard of the audience, that even these beauties 
•escape not their observation, though never so justly 
directed. As in a piece of History Painting, though 
the figures fix their eyes ever so directly to each 
other, yet the beholder, by the advantage of their po- 
sition, has a full view of the expression of the soul 
in the eyes of the figures. 

The looks and just expressions of all the other 
passions has the- same eft'ect, as this we have men- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 87 

tioncd of anger. For if the grief of another touches 
you with a real compassion, tears will flow from your 
eyes, whether you will or not. And this art of weep- 
ing was studied with great application by the ancient 
players ; and they made so extraordinary a progress 
in it, and worked the counterfeit so near a reality, 
that their faces used to be all over bedewed with 
tears w hen they came off the stage. 

They were likewise so much affected by acting 
these mournful parts, that they for some time, when 
off the stage, seemed, as I have observed, struek by 
a real sorrow to the heart. 

This behaviour justifies what the ancients practis- 
ed in heightening their theatrical sorrow, by fixing the 
mind on real objects ; or by working the actor up by 
a strong imagination that he is the very person, and 
in the very same circumstances, w r hich will make the 
case so very much his own, that he will not want 
fire in anger, nor tears in grief; and then he need 
not fear affecting the audience ; for passions are won- 
derfully conveyed ; the tears of one melting the heart 
of the other, by a very visible sympathy between 
their imaginations and aspects. 

You must lift up or cast down, your eyes, accord- 
ing to the nature of the things you speak of ; thus if 
of heaven, your eyes naturally are lifted up ; if of 
earth, or hell, or any thing terrestial, they are as nat- 
urally cast down. Your eyes must also be directed 
according to the passions ; as to deject them on things 
of disgrace, and which you are ashamed of ; and 
raise them on things of honor, which you can glory in 



83 THE HISTORY OF 

with conlidence and reputation. In swearing, ortak- 
ing a solemn oath, or attestation of any thing, to the 
veriety of what you say, you tarn your eyes, and in 
the same action lift up your hand to the thing you 
swear by, or attest. 

Your eye-brows must neither be immoveable, nor 
always in motion ; nor must they both be raised on 
every thing that is spoken with eagerness and con- 
sent ; and much less must one be raised, and the 
other cast down ; but generally they must remain in 
the same posture and equality, which they have by 
nature, allowing them their due motion when the 
passions require it ; that is, to contract themselves 
and frown in sorrow ; to smooth and dilate them- 
selves in joy ; to hang down in humility, &c. 

The mouth must never be writhed, nor the linos bit 
or licked, which are all ungenteel aud unmannerly 
actions, and yet what some are frequently guilty of ; 
yet in some efforts or starts of passion, the lips have 
their share of action, but this more on the stage, than 
in any other public speaking, either in the Pulpit, or 
at the Bar ; because the stage is, or ought to be, an 
imitation of natume in those actions and discourses, 
which are produced between man and man by any 
passion, or on any business, which can afford action ; 
for all other has in reality nothing to do with the 
scene. 

Though to shrug up the shoulders be no gesture 
iii oratory, yet on the stage the character of the per- 
son, and the subject of his discourse, may render it 
proper enough ; though I confess, it seems more a- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 8ft 

dapted to Comedy, than Tragedy, where all should 
be great and solemn, and with which the gravest of 
the orators actions will agree. I have read of a 
pleasant method, that Demosthenes took to cure him- 
self of this vice of action, for he at first was mightily 
given to it ; he used to exercise himself in declaim- 
ing in a narrow and straight place, with a dagger 
hung just over his shoulders ; so that as often as he 
shrugged them up, the point, by pricking his should- 
ers, put him in mind of his error ; which in time re- 
moved the defect. 

Others thrust out the belly, and throw back the 
head, both gestures unbecoming and indecent. 

We come now to the hands, which, as they are 
the chief instruments of action, varying themselves as 
many ways, as they are capable of expressing things, 
so is it a difficult matter to give such rules as are 
without exception. Those natural significations of 
particular gestures, and what I shall here add, will 
I hope, be some light to the young actor in this par- 
ticular. 1st. I would have him regard the action of 
the hands, as to their expression of accusation, dep- 
recation, threats, desire, &c. and to weigh well what 
those actions are, and in what manner expressed ; 
and then considering how large a share those actions 
have in all manner of discourse, he will find that his 
hands need never be idle, or employed in an insignifi- 
cant or unbeautiful gesture. 

In the beginning of a solemn speech or oration, 
as in that of Anthony on the death of Cesar, or of 
12 



90 THE HISTORY OF 

Brutus on the same occasion, there is no gesture, at 
least of any consideration, unless it begin abruptly, 
as Jupiter, O heavens ! is this to be borne P the 
very ships then in our eyes, which I preserved, &c. 
extending here his hands first to heaven, and then to 
the ships. In all regular gestures of the hands, they 
ought perfectly to correspond with one another ; as 
in starting in amaze, on a sudden fright, as Hamlet 
in the seene between him and his mother, on the ap- 
pearance of his father's Ghost 

" Save me, anil hover o'er me with your wings, 
You heavenly Guards !" 

This is spoke with arms and hands extended, and 
expressing his concern, as well as his eyes, and ichole 
face. If an action comes to be used by only one 
hand, that must be by the right, it being indecent to 
make a gesture with the left alone ; except you should 
say any such thing as, 

;; Rather than be guilty of so foul a deed, 
I'd cut this right hand off, &c. 

For here the actions must be expressed by the 
left hand, because the right is the member to suffer. 
When you speak of yourself, the right not the left 
hand must be applied to the bosom, declaring your 
own faculties, and passions ; your heart, your soul, 
or your conscience. But this action, generally speak- 
ing, should be only applied or expressed by laying 
the hand gently on the breast, and not by thumping 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 91 

it as some people do. The gesture must pass from 
the left to the right) and there end with gentleness 
aud moderation, at least not stretch to the extremity 
of violence. You must be sure, as you begin your 
action with what you say, so you must end it when 
you have done speaking ; for action either before or 
after utterance is highly ridiculous. The movement 
or gestures of your hands must always be agreeable 
to the nature of the words, that you speak ; for when 
you say come in, or approach, you must not stretch 
out your hand with a repulsive gesture ; nor, on the 
contrary, when you say, stand back, must your ges- 
ture be inviting ; nor must you join your hands, 
when you command separation ; nor open them, when 
your order is closing; nor hang them down, when 
you bid raise such a thing, or person ; nor lift them 
up, when you say throw them down. For all these 
gestures would be so visibly against nature, that you 
would be laughed at by all that saw or heard you. 
By these instances of faulty action, you may easily 
see the right, and gather this rule, that as much as 
possible every gesture you use should express the 
nature of the words you utter, which would sufficient- 
ly and beautifully employ your hands. 

It is impossible to have any great emotion or ges- 
ture of the body, without the action of the hands, to 
answer the figures of discourse, which are made use 
of in all poetical, as well as rhetorical diction ; for 
poetry derives its beauty in that from rhetoric, as it 
does its order and justness from grammar ; which 
surprises me, .that some of our modern taking pccts 



92 THE H1ST011Y O* 

value themselves on that, which is not properly po- 
etry, but only made use of as an ornament, and 
drawn from other arts and sciences. 
Thus when Medea says, 

These images of Jason 

With my own hands I'll strangle, &.c. 

it is certain the action ought to be expressed by the 
hands, to give it all its force. 

In the lifting up the hands, to preserve the grace, 
you ought not raise them above the eyes ; to stretch 
them farther might disorder and distort the body; nor 
must tbey be very little lower, because that position 
gives a beauty to the figure ; besides, this posture be- 
ing generally on some surprise, admiration, abhor- 
rence, &c. which proceeds from tire object, that affects 
the eye, nature by a sort of mechanic motion throws 
the hands out as guards to the eyes on such an occasion. 

You must never let either of your hands hang down, 
as if lame or dead ; for that is very disagreeable to 
the eye, and argues no passion in the imagination. In 
short, your hands must always be in view of your 
eyes, and so corresponding with the motions of the 
head, eyes, and body, that the spectator may see their 
concurrence, every one in its own way to signify the 
same thing, which will make a more agreeable, and 
by consequence a deeper impression on their senses, 
and their understanding. 

Your arms you should not stretch out side ways, 
above half a foot from the trunk of your body ; you 
will otherwise throw your gesture quite out of your 



THE ENGLISH STAfcE. 1)3 

sight, unless you turn your head also aside to pursue 
it, which would be very ridiculous. 

In swearing, attestation, or taking any solemn vow 
or oath, you must raise your hand. An exclamation 
requires the same aetion ; but so that the gesture may 
not only answer the pronunciation, or utterance, but 
both the nature of the thing, and the meaning of the 
words. In public speeches, orations, and sermons, 
it is true your hands ought not to be always in motion, 
a vice which was once called the babbling of the 
hands ; and, perhaps, it may reach some characters, 
and speeches in plays ; but I am of opinion, that the 
hands in acting ought very seldom to be wholly qui- 
escent, and that if we had the art of the Pantomimes, 
of expressing things so clearly with their hands, as 
to make the gestures supply words, the joining these 
significant actions to the words and passions justly 
drawn by the poet, would be no contemptible grace 
in the player, and render the diversion infinitely more 
entertaining, than it is at present. For indeed action 
is the business of the stage, and an error is more par- 
donable on the right, than the wrong side. 

There are some actions or gestures, which you 
must never make use of in Tragedy, any more than in 
pleading, or sermons, they being low, and fitter for 
Comedy or burlesque entertainments. Thus you 
must not put yourself into the posture of one bending 
a bow, presenting a musket, or playing on any musi- 
cal instrument, as if you had it in your hands. 

You must never imitate any lewd, obscene or inde- 
cent postures, let your discourse be on the debauch- 



94 



THE HISTORY OF 



eries of the age, or any thing of that nature, winch 
the description of an Anthony and Verres might re- 
quire our discourse of. 

When you speak in a Prosopopaeia, a figure by 
which you introduce any thing or person speaking, 
you must be sure to use such actions only, as are 
proper for the character you speak for. I cannot re- 
member at present one in Tragedy ; but in Comedy, 
Melantha, when she speaks for a man, and answers 
him in her own person, may give you some image of 
it. But these seldom happen in plays, and in orations 
not very frequently. 

Thus I have gone through the art of action or ges- 
ture, which though I have directed it chiefly for the 
stage, and there principally for Tragedy, yet the Bar, 
and the Pulpit may learn some lessons from what I 
have said, that would be of use to make their plead- 
ing and sermons of more force and grace. But, I 
think, the Pulpit chiefly lias need of this doctrine, 
because that converses more with the passions, than 
the Bar, and treats of more sublime subjects, merito- 
rious of all the beauty and solemnity of action. I am 
persuaded, that if our clergy would apply themselves 
more to this art, what they preach would be more ef- 
ficacious, and themselves more respected ; nay, have 
a greater awe on their auditors. But then it must be 
confessed, it is next to impossible for them to attain this 
perfection, while that custom prevails of reading of 
sermons, which no clergy in the world do but those 
of the church of England. For while they read they 
are not perfect enough in what they deliver, to give 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. £)j 

it its proper action and emphasis, either in pronunci* 
ation or gesture. But the Toiler has handled this 
particular very well ; and if what he lias said will 
have no influence upon them, it will be much in vain 
for me to attempt it. 

The Comedians, I fear may take it amiss, that I 
have had little or no regard to them in these rules. 
But, I must confess though I have attempted two or 
three comical parts, which the indulgence of the town 
to an old fellow has given me some applause for ; 
yet Tragedy is, and has always been, my delight. 
Besides, as some have observed, that Comedy is less 
difficult in the writing ; so I am apt to believe, it is 
much easier in the acting ; not that a good Comedian 
is to be made by every one that attempts it, but we 
have had, almost ever since I knew the stage, more 
and better Comedians, than Tragedians ; as we have 
better Comedies than Tragedies written in our lan- 
guage, as the critics and knowing judges tell us. 
But being willing to raise Tragedies from their pres- 
ent neglect, to the esteem they had in the most polite 
nation that ever Europe knew, I have endeavoured 
to contribute ray part towards the improving of the 
representation, which has a mighty influence on the 
success and esteem of any thing of this nature. 

We will now proceed to the other duty of a play, 
er, which is the art of speaking ; which, though 
much the least considerable, yet, according to our 
modern Tragedies, I mean those which have been 
best received, is of most use. For those poets have 
very erroneously applied themselves to write more 



£)6 THE HISTORY OF 

what requires just speaking, than just acting. Our 
players, generally speaking, fall very much short of 
that excellence, even in this which they ought to aim 
or arrive at ; which but too plainly proves what Ros- 
eneraus describes — An airy of children, little yases 
they cry out on the top of the question, and are most 
tyrannically clapt fort ; these are now the fashion, 
and so berattle the common stages (so they call 'em J 
that many wearing rapiers are of raid of goose quills* 
and dare scarce come thither. And though what I 
have before quoted from Hamlet (in this account of 
the actor's action and* behaviour) does happily ex- 
press the soul and art of acting, which Shakespeare 
has drawn, the complete art of gesture in miniature, 
in the quoted speech, yet all the directions which he 
gives, relate (except one line) wholly to speaking. 

Hamlet. " Speak the speech, I pray you, as I 
pronounced it, trippingly on the tongue. But if you 
mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lieve 
the town crier had spoke my lines. Nor do not saw 
the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all 
gently : For in the very torrent, tempest, and I may 
say the whirlwind of j^ussion, you must acquire and 
beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness. Oh ! 
it offends me to the soul, to see a robustuous, perri- 
wig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very 
rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the 
most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable 
dumb shows and noise, I could have such a fellow 
whipt for overdoing Termagant : It out-Herod's Her- 
od. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 9? 

but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the 
action to the word, the word to the action, with this 
special observance, that you o'er top not the modesty 
of nature. For any thing so overdone is from the 
purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and 
now, Mas and is to hold as 'twere the mirror up to 
nature ; to shew virtue her own feature ; scorn her 
own image, and the very age and body of the time, 
his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come 
tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot 
but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of which 
one, must in your allowance o'er sway a whale TJiea- 
tre of others. Oh ! there be players, that I have 
seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, 
(not to speak it profanely) that neither having the 
accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, Pa- 
gan, or Norman, have so strutted and bellow'd, that 
I have thought some of nature's journeymen had made 
men, and not made them well, they imitated human- 
ity so abominably. 

Player. " I hope we have reformed that indiffer- 
ently with us, sir. 

Ham. " Oh ! reform it altogether. And let those 
who play the clowns, speak no more than is set down 
for 'em ; for there be of them, who will themselves 
laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to 
laugh too ; though in the mean time, some necessary 
question of the play be then to be considered ; that's 
villainous, and shews a most pitiful ambition in the 
fool that uses it." 

If we should consider and weigh these directions 
13 



i)8 THE HISTORY Of 

well I am persuaded they are sufficient to instruct a 
young player in all the beauties of utterance and to 
correct all the errors he might, for want of the art of 
speaking have incurred. By pronouncing it trippingly 
on the tongue, he means a clear and disembarrassed 
pronunciation, such as is agreeable to nature and the 
subject on which he speaks, his telling the actor, that 
he had as lieve the town-crier should speak his lines, 
as one that mouth'd them, is very just ; for if noise 
were an excellence, I know not who would bear away 
the palm, the crier, or the player 5 I am sure the town- 
cner would be less faulty ; his business requiring 
noise. J\For do not saw the air with your hand thus, 
but use all gently. This is the only precept of ac- 
tion, which is extremely just, and agreeable to the 
ideas of all, that I have met with on my full inquiry 
among my learned friends, who have read all that 
has been wrote upon action, and who reckon rude 
and boisterous gestures among the faulty. Art al- 
ways directing a moderate and gentle motion, which 
Shakespeare expresses by use all gently. Besides 
this sawing of the air, expresses one who is very 
much at a loss how to dispose of his hands, but know- 
ing that they should have some motion, gives them 
an aukward violence. The next observation is ex- 
tremely masterly. For in the very torrent, tem- 
pest, and I may say the whirlwind of passion, you 
must acquire and get a temperance, that may give it 
smoothness. I remember, among many, an instance 
in the madness of Alexander the Great, in Lee's play, 
Mr. Goodman always went through it with all the 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 99 

force the part required, and yet made uot half the 
noise as some who succeeded him ; who were sure 
to hellow it out in such a manner, that their voice 
would fail them before the end, and lead them to 
such a languid and ennervate hoarseness, as entirely 
wanted that agreeable smoothness, which Shakes- 
peare requires, and which is the perfection of beau- 
tiful speaking ; for to have a just heat, and loudness, 
and yet a smoothness, is all that can be desired. Of 
it offends me to the soul, he goes on. Methinks some 
of our young gentlemen, who value themselves for 
great players, nay, and judges too of the drama, set 
up for critics, and who censure and receive or reject 
plays, should be ashamed of themselves, when they 
read this in Shakespeare, of whose authority they 
seem so fond on other occasions. 



OHAP. VII. 

Some farther Memoirs of Nell Guyn. 

Ellen Guyn, or Quin,* as A. Wood calls her, 
was born of obscure parents ; and, as it is written by 
the author of her life, was at first no better than a 
ciuder-girl ; but that she sold oranges, when first 
taken notice of, is generally agreed on ; and then one 
Mr. Duncan, a merchant, taking a fancy to her smart 
wit, fine shape, and foot, the least of any woman's in 

* Fasti. Vol. 2, p. 154. See Capt. Smith's Court of Venus, 
Svo. 1716, Vol. 1, inier .Life. 



100 THE HISTORY OF 

in England, kept her about two years, then recom- 
mended her into the King's play house, where she 
became an actress in great vogue, and mistress both 
to old Lacy and young Hart, two famous players at 
that time. In a satire ascribed to Lord Rochester, * 
her first employment is said to be selling of herrings ; 
next was exposed by Madam Ross, a noted procur- 
ess, to those who would give half a crown ; lastly 
took her degrees in the play house ; where, it is re- 
ported, this Lord himself, as also the Duke of Buck- 
ingham, paid their addresses to her. She is men- 
tioned to have come into the royal eompany of Come- 
dians in Drury Lane, a few years after the first open- 
ing of that house, in 166B. f And the parts she act- 
ed in some of Mr. Dryden's plays, Sir Robert How- 
ard's, and the Earl of Orrery's, are also distinguish- 
ed. At length, by her fine dancing, she is said to 
Jiave won her sovereign's heart, and so rose to be one 
of his principal ladies of pleasure, in spite of all the 
charms which Cleveland, Portsmouth, or Miss Davis 
could exert. * There are many comical passages re- 
ported of Nell Guyn : she being of a gay, frolicksome 
and humourous disposition ; but some are a little too 
loose, and others a little too long to be here inserted. 
This story may however perhaps be excused : That 
having once by an unlucky run of ill luck at gaming, 
lost all her money, and run in debt with Sir John 

* State Poems, Vol. 2, p. 193. 

f See J. Downes's Roscius Anglican, or History of the Stage 
Svo. i?08, p. 2. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 10.1 

Germain, he took the advantage for making such a 
proposal for the easy payment thereof, as may be well 
guessed at, by her answer, when she replied, with 
equal smartness and fidelity to her royal keeper, 
That truly, she was no such sportswoman, as to lay 
the dog where the deer should lie. * Many sharp 
satires were written on her ; rather through envy at 
her sudden advancement from such a mean origin, 
than any unworthiness in her of the station to whieh 
she was advanced. One therefore is ascribed to Sir 
George Etheredge, in Dryden's Miscellanies; of 
which some use has here been made. And the Lord 
Shaftesbury has this reflection, in his speech Anno 
1680, upon the King's concubines in general. " A 
" wise Prince, when he hath need of his people, will 
" rather part with his family and Counsellors, than 
" displease his friends for them. This noble Lord 
?•' near me, hath found fault with that precedent which 
Ci he said I offered to your Lordsjiips concerning the 
" chargeable ladies at court. I remember no such 
u thing I said ; but if I must speak of them, I shall 
i( say, as the Prophet did to King Saul — What means 
" the bleating of this kind of cattle ? And I hope the 
" King will make the same kind of answer — That he 
"preserves them from sacrifice ; and means to de- 
"■ liver them up to please the people. For there 
il must be a change ; we must neither have Popish 
" favourites, nor Popish mistresses, nor Popish coun- 

* See the Duke of Norfolk's charge against Mary his Duch- 
ess, for adultery with Sir J. Germain, with the Duchess's an.- 
9wer, Fol. 1692. 



102 THE HISTORY OF 

"cillors at court; nor any new convert. Wbajt I 
" spoke was about another lady, that belongs not to 
" the court ; but like Sempronia in conspiracy, Cat- 
" aline' s does more mischief than Cethegus.'** Yet 
that any of this was meant least against Nell Ouyn, 
is manifest ; for she troubled not her head with re- 
ligion, and was no Popish mistress ; nor with poli- 
tics, and did no mischief. And though she might be 
alike chargeable with the rest to his Majesty, never- 
theless^ as she had more spirit, wit, and pleasantry ; 
so had she more justice, charity, and generosity in 
her, than all the King's other mistresses. The haugh- 
ty and imperious air, she left to them ; hers was free 
and degagee ; which rendered her more amiable be- 
cause less awful. There is a picture of her in being, 
which was taken by Sir Peter Lely 5 but one copy of it 
in Mezzotinto, does not express that agreeable vivaci- 
ty which brightened every feature. His Majesty had 
issue by her, Charles, sirnamed Beauelerc jf born 
about the middle of May, 1670, who was created 
Earl of Burford, and afterwards Duke of St. Albans ; 
for whose use, his mother is said to have bought Col. 
Richard Ingoldby's estate, at Lethenborough, in 
Buckinghamshire. £ She had also by his Majesty 
another son, named James, born about Christmas 
day, 1671 ? who died in France about Michlemas, 
1680. As for herself, she died at her house in Pall 

* Capt. Smith's Court of Venus, &e. as above. 
f Dugdale's Baron, and Athen, Oxon. in Fasti. V, 2, Fol. 154. 
\ Allien. Oxon. in Fasti. Vol. 77. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. \ 03 

jUall, in 1691, and was pompously interred in the 
Parish Church of St. Martin's in the Fields, where 
Dr. Thomas Tenison, then Vicar thereof (and late 
Archbishop of Canterbury) preached her funeral ser- 
mon, or a panegyric rather, upon her and her pro- 
fession, as some thought it, giving a more mild and 
favourable character of such a woman than was then 
deemed to become his cloth. This sermon the Earl 
of Jersey, who wanted to prefer Dr. Scott, of Si. 
Gile's, objected to Queen Mary, against her prefer- 
ring Dr. Tenison to the See of Lincoln ; which, a 
few weeks after he preached it, became vacant by the 
death of Dr. Thomas Barlow ; and had probably 
lost it him, , had not her Majesty conceived a very 
steady opinion of his deserts ; when she answered — 
It was a sign that this poor unfortunate woman died 
■penitent ; for if I can read a man's heart through 
his looks, had she not made a truly pious and Chris- 
tian end, the Doctor could never have been induced 
to speak well of her.* Among her donations, one 
was, a sum of money for a weekly entertainment of 
the ringers at St. Martin's aforesaid ; which they 
enjoy to this day. There is a pamphlet, entitled, 
An account of the Tragedy of old Madam Quyii. 
drowned near the Neat Houses, printed in Quarto, 
1679. Whether the mother or any other relation of 
Nell Guyn, I know not. 

We shall conclude this chapter with the following 
letter. 

* The life of Dr. Tenison. octavo p. -20 



101 THE HISTORY OF 

To the Author of the History of the Stage, 

Sir, 

That excellent actor, Mr. Edward Kynaston, was 
well descended. 

The Kynastons were anciently possessed of a gen- 
teel estate at Oteley in Shropshire. 

Mr. Kynaston, to whom we have more immediate 
relation, acquired a handsome fortune by the stage. 
He left an only son, whom he bred a mercer. He 
lived in Covent Garden, greatly improved his patri- 
mony, and in that parish both father and son lie in- 
terred. 

Mr. Kynaston, the mercer, left likewise an only 
son, whom he bred a clergyman, who by means of 
bis father's dying intestate, and a lucky marriage, 
was enabled to purchase the impropriation of Aid- 
gate. 

He looks upon himself as the top of his family, 
and therefore thinks it beneath him to give any ac- 
count of it. But, 

Survey the Globe, and ev'ry where you'll find, 
Pride and Prunella both in one conjoin'd. 

You may, sir, depend on the truth of these partie- 
lars. I am, &c. 

Philalhthf.k, 

Will's Coffee Mouse. Auz. 1, 1736. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE* 105 



CHAP. VIII. 



The opening of the new Theatre in the Hay-Market 
Death of Mr. Betterton and Miss Barry. 

We now come to give an account of another stage 
revolution, which is the removal of the Lincoln's-Inn- 
Fields Company to a new Theatre erected for them 
in the Hay-Market, which -was opened 1705, with 
the following Prologue, written by Sir Samuel Garth, 
and spoken by Miss Bracegirdle. 

Such was our builder's art, that soon as nam'd, 

This fabric, like the infant world, was fram'd. 

The Architect must on dull order wait, 

But 'tis the Poet only can create.* 

None else, at pleasure, can duration give j 

When marble fails, the Muses structures live. 

The Cyprian fane is now no longer seen, 

Tho* sacred to the name of love's fair Queen. 

Ev'n Athens scarce in pompous ruin stands, 

Tho' finish'd by the learn'd Minerva's hands.f 

3?ore sure presages from these walls we find, 

By beauty founded, and by wit design'd. 

In the good age of ghostly ignorance, 

How did Cathedrals rise, and zeal advance ! 

The merry Monks said orisons at ease ; 

Large were their meals, and light their penances. 

Pardon for sins was purchas'd with estates, 

And none but Rogues in rags dy'd reprobates. 

* The builder of this fabric Sir John Vanburgh, was both 
Poet and Architect. 

t Lady Harriot Godolphin, one of the Duke of Marlborough's 
daughters. 

14 



10$ THE HISTORY OT 

But now that pious pageantry's no more, 

And stages thrive, as churches did before. 

Your own magnificence you here survey, 

Majestic columns stand, where dunghills lay, 

And cars triumphal rise from carts of hay. 

Swains here are taught to hope, and Nymphs to fear, 

And big Almauzor's fight,* mock — Blenheim's here. 

Descending goddesses adorn our scenes, 

And quit their bright abodes, for gilt machines. 

Shou'd Jove for this fair circle, leave his throne, 

He'd meet a lightning fiercer than his own. 

Tho' to the Sun his tow'ring eagles rise, 

They scarce could bear the lustre of these eyes. 

Though the revolters seemed to set up their stan- 
dard here with great satisfaction, and continued their 
residence for about four years, yet it was but in a 
kind of fluctuating state ; for several of them were 
frequently deserting from one company to another, 
backwards and forwards from each of the subsisting 
Theatres. 

To repair some very great losses, which Mr. Bet- 
terton had sustained, in the years 1706, 1707? and 
1708 successively, on Thursday the 7th of April, 
1709, the celebrated Comedy of Love for Love, was 
acted at Drury-lane Theatre for his benefit. Those 
excellent players Miss Barry, Miss Bracegirdle, and 
Mr. Dogget, (then not concerned in the house) acted 
on this occasion. There had not been known so 
great a concourse of persons of distinction, as at that 
time ; the stage itself was covered with gentlemen 

* Almauzor and Almatide, characters in Mr. Dryden's Con- 
quest of Grenada. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 107 

and ladies, and when the curtain was drawn up, it 
discovered even there a very splendid audience. — 
This unusual encouragement, which was given to a 
play, for the advantage of so great an actor, gave an 
undeniable instance, that the true relish for manly 
entertainment and rational pleasures was not then 
wholly lost. All the parts were acted to perfection ; 
the actors were careful of their carriage, and no one 
was guilty of the affectation to insert witticisms of 
his own, but a due respect was had to the audience, 
for encouraging this admirable player. It was not 
then doubted but plays would revive, and take their 
usual place in the opinion of persons of wit and mer- 
it, and not degenerate into an apostacy in favour of 
dress and sound. 

We must not omit to observe farther, that a Pro- 
logue written by Mr. Congreve was, on this occasion, 
spoken by Miss Bracegirdle ; and an Epilogue, writ- 
ten by Mr. Howe, was spoken by Miss Barry. The 
former the public were not obliged with, but the lat- 
ter was printed and dispersed in the house the very 
night it was spoken. It was as follows. 

As some brave Knight who once with spear and shield, 

Had sought renown in many a well fought field, 

But now no more with sacred fame inspir'd, 

Was to a peaceful hermitage retir'd ; 

There, if by chanee disast'rous tales he hears, 

Of Matrons wrongs and captive Virgins tears, 

He feels soft pity urge his gen'rous breast, 

And vows once more to succour the distrest ; 

Buckled in mail he sallies on the plain, ( 

And turns him to the feats of arms again. 



108 THE HISTORY OF 

So we, to former leagues of friendship true, 
Have bid once more our peaceful homes adieu, 
To aid old Thomas,* and to pleasure you. 
Like errant damsels boldly we engage, 
Arm'd, as you see, for the defenceless stage. 
Time was, when this good man no help did lack, 
And scornM that any she should hold his back. 
But now, so age and frailty have ordain'd, 
By two at once he's forc'd to be sustain'd.f 
You see, what failing nature brings man to, 
And yet let none insult; for aught we know 5 
She may not wear so well with some of you : 
Tho' old, you find his strength is not clean past, 
But true as steel, he's mettle to the last. 
If better he perform'd iu days of yore, 
Yet now he gives you all that's in his pow'r ; 
What can the youngest of you all do more ? 

What he has been, tho' present praise be dumb, 
Shall haply be a theme in times to come, 
As now we talk of Roscius and of Rome. 
Had you withheld your favours on this night, 
Old Shakespeare's ghost had ris'n to do him right : 
With indignation had you seen him frown, 
Upon a worthless, witless, tasteless town ; 
Griev'd and repining you had heard him say, 
Why are my famous labours cast away ? 
Why did I only write, what only he could play ? 
But since like friends to wit, thus throng'd you meet, 
Go on and make the gen'rous work complete ; 
Be true to merit, and still own his cause, 
Find something for him more than bare applause. 
In just remembrance of your pleasures past, 
Be kind, and give him a discharge at last. 
In peace arid ease life's remnant let him wear, 
And hang his consecrated buskin here, 
f Thomas Betterton. 

* Miss Barry stood on his right, and Miss Bracegirdl^ ou 
his, left hand. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 10$ 

In the month of September following, Mr. Better- 
ton performed the part of Hamlet ; and in him every 
spectator beheld the force of action in perfection. 
He behaved himself so well, that though above sev- 
enty, he acted youth ; and by the prevalent power 
of proper maimer, gesture, and voice, appeared thro' 
the whole Drama a young man of great expectation, 
vivacity, and enterprise. The soliloquy where he 
began the celebrated sentence of To be, or not to be ; 
the expostulation where he explains with his mother 
in her closet ; the noble ardour, after seeing his fath- 
er's Ghost, and his generous distress for the death of 
Ophelia ; are each of them circumstances which 
dwell strongly upon the minds of the audience, and 
Would certainly affect their behaviour on any paral- 
lel occasions in their own lives. 

Such were the proper ornaments, with which this 
great man represented virtue on the stage. 

But yet the indolent, emasculating sing-song of It- 
aly, had gained so much ground in England, that 
Mr. Betterton, weary of the fatigues and toil of the-, 
atrical government, delivered his company over to 
Mr. Vanbrugh's new licence. But they again giv. 
ing way to the Operas, the companies were once more 
united in Drury Lane, and the Operas confined to 
the Hay-Market. However, revolutions became so 
frequent in this Dramatic state, that Mr. Swinny got 
the chief players over to him and the Opera House 5 
among whom was Mr. Betterton, who being very 
much afflicted with the gout, acted but seldom ; yet 
at this juncture, upon the separation of the houses, 



110 THE HISTORY OF 

when musical performances were confined to one the- 
atre, and Dramatic to the other, The British En- 
chanters, or No Magic Like Love, written by Lord 
liansdowne, was brought on at the Queen's theatre 
in the Hay-Market, 1710. Among the Dramatis 
Personae of this truly polite English Opera, were, 
men, Mr. Betterton, Mr. Booth, Mr. Verbruggen, &c. 
women, Miss Barry, Miss Bracegirdle, Miss Porter, 
&c. 

The sole design of this excellent performance was 
a portraiture of the virtues of the immortal Queen 
Anne. The last scene of it, represented the Queen, 
and all the triumphs of her Majesty's reign. 

Surveying round her, with impartial eyes, 
Whom to protect, or whom she should chastise. 
In ev'ry line of her auspicious face, 
Soft merey smil'd, adorn'd with ev'ry grace. 
Sure hope of all who dire oppression bear, 
For all th' oppress'd become her instant care. 
Nations, of conquest proud, she tam'd to free, 
Denouncing war, presenting liberty ; 
The victor to the vanquish'd yields a prize, 
For in her triumph, their redemption lies. 
Freedom and peace for ravish'd fame she gave : 
Invades to bless, and conquers but to save. 
So the sun scorches, and revives by turns, 
Requiting with rich metals, where he burns. 

Taught by this great example to be just, 
Succeeding Kings shall well fulfill their trust ; 
Discord and war, and tyranny shall cease, 
And jarring nations be compelled to peace ; 
Princes and states, like subjects, shall agree, 
To trust her power, safe in her piety. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE.. Ill 

m 

Great Britain's glory was this royal darae, 

From Stuart's race she rose, and Anne was her name. 

The chief performers in this Opera, from their de- 
serts, justly gained universal applause ; but the same 
year of its representation, deprived the world of Mr. 
Betterton, who died shortly after. His true charac- 
ter follows :* 

" Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be re- 
corded with the same respect as Roscius among the 
Romans. The greatest orator has thought fit to quote 
his judgment, and celebrate his life. Hoscius was 
the example to all that would form themselves into 
proper and winning behaviour. His action was so 
well adapted to the sentiments he expressed that the 
youth of Rome thought they wanted only to be vir- 
tuous to be as graceful in their appearance as Ros- 
cius. The imagination took a lively impression of 
what was great and good; and they who never thought 
of setting up for the art of imitation, became them- 
selves inimitable characters. 

" There is no human invention so aptly calculated 
for the forming a free-born people as that of a thea- 
tre. Tully reports, that the celebrated player of 
whom I am speaking, used frequently to say, The 
perfection of an actor is only to become what he is do- 
ing. Young men, who are too inattentive to receive 
lectures, are irresistibly taken with performances. 
Hence it is, that I extremely lament the little relish 
the gentry of this nation have at present for the just 

* See the Tatler, No. 16?. 



112 TH£ HISTORY OF 

and noble representations in some of our tragedies. 
The Operas, which are of late introduced, can leave 
no trace behind them that can be of service beyond 
the. present moment. To sing and to dance are ac- 
complishments very few have any thoughts of prac- 
tising ; but to speak justly and move gracefully, is 
what every man thinks he does peform, or wishes he 
did. 

" I can hardly think, that any performer of an- 
tiquity could surpass the action of Mr. Betterton in 
any of the occasions in which he has appeared on 
our stage. The wonderful agony which he ap- 
peared in, when he examined the circumstance of 
the handkerchief in Othello ; the mixture of love that 
intruded upon his mind upon the innocent answers 
Desdemona makes, betrayed in his gesture such a 
variety and vicissitude of passions, as would admon- 
ish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and perfect- 
ly convince him, that it is to stab it, to admit that 
worst of daggers, jealousy. Whoever reads in his 
closet this admirable scene, will find that he cannot, 
except he has as warm an imagination as Shake- 
speare himself, find any but dry, incoherent and 
broken sentences ; but a reader that has seen Better- 
ton act it, observes there could not be a word added; 
that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay, impos- 
sible, in Othello's circumstances. The charming 
passage in the same tragedy, where he tells the man- 
ner of winning the affection of his mistress, was urg- 
ed with so moving and graceful an energy, that while 
I walked in the cloisters, I thought of him with the 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 113 

game concern as if I waited for the remains of a per- 
son who had in real life done all that I had seen him 
represent. The gloom of the place, and faint lights 
before the ceremony appeared, contributed to the 
melancholy disposition I was in ; and I began to be 
extremely afflicted, that Brutus and Cassius had any 
difference ; that Hotspur's gallantry was so unfortu- 
nate ; and that the mirth and good humour of Fal- 
staff could not exempt him from the grave. Nay, 
this occasion in me, who look upon the distinctions 
among men to be merely scenical, raised reflections 
upon tiie emptiness of all human perfection and great- 
ness in general ; and I could not but regret, that the 
sacred heads which lie buried in the neighbourhood 
of this little portion of earth in which my poor old 
friend is deposited, are returned to dust as well as 
he, and that there is no difference in the grave be- 
tween the imaginary and real monarch. This made 
me say of human life itself with Macbeth : 

To-morrow, to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in a stealing pace from day to day, 
To the last moment of recording time ! 
And all your yesterdays have lighted fools 
To the eternal night ! Out, out brief candle ! 
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player 
That struts and frets his hour upou the stage, 
Aud then is heard no more. 

Mr. Betterton was interred in the cloister of West- 
minster Abbey. 

We are now to return to Miss Barry, who did not 
long survive him 5 for she found such an inward de- 
15 



114 THE HISTORY Of 

cay, that she was obliged to quit the stage above 
seven years before she died, which was on the 7th 
day of November, 1713. She was interred at Acton, 
in the county of Middlesex. She had a daughter by 
the celebrated John Earl of Rochester, who by Will 
1680, left her an annuity of 40Z. per annum. She 
died at about thirteen years of age, and lies interred 
at the same place. The love letters which we have 
in print by his Lordship, were all written to Miss 
liarry ; the first of them opens thus : 

Madam, 

" So much wit and beauty as you have, should think 
of nothing less than doing miracles ; and there cannot 
be a greater, than to continue to love me : Affecting 
every thing is mean, as loving pleasure, and being 
fond, where you find merit ; but to pick out the wild- 
est, and most fantastical, odd man, alive, and to plaee 
your kindness there, is an act so brave and daring, as 
will show the greatness of your spirit, and distinguish 
you in love, as you are in all things else, from wo- 
mankind." 

On her being brought to bed he thus compliments 
her: 

" Your safe delivery has delivered me too from fears 
for your sake, which were, Fll promise you, as bur- 
densome to me, as your delicate situation could be to 
you. Every thing has fallen out to my wish, for yon 
are out of danger, and the child is of the soft sex I 
love." 

This daughter was christened by her mother's 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 115 

name, Elizabeth ; and he thus, in another letter, ex- 
presses himself: 

" I love Betty so well, that you need not appre- 
hend any neglect from those 1 employ ; and I hope 
very shortly to restore her to you a finer girl than 
ever." 

The whole course of his Lordship's letters to Miss 
Barry, are so elegantly polite, that every reader must 
be charmed with them. They were subjoined to the 
collection of his Poems, which contains the Tragedy 
of Valentiuian, ISmo. 1714. 

In the Church Yard of Acton, is the following Me* 
morialfor Miss Barry. 

Near this place 

Lies the body of Elizabeth Barry, 

Of the Parish of St. Mary Le Savoy, 

Who departed this life the 7th of Nov. 1713. 

Aged 55 years. 

Memoirs of Mr. WilJcs. 

Mr. Wilks was descended from a very good fam- 
ily in Warwickshire, in which county all his prede- 
cessors were born. His father, Edward Wllks Esq. 
was obliged to leave England through misfortunes, 
and some friends he had in Ireland procured him the 
post of being one of the Pursuivants to the Lord Lieu- 
tenant of that kingdom. He had three sons, Ed- 
ward, Robert, and William. The second of which, 
our late excellent Comedian, was born at a little vil- 



116 THE HISTORY OF 

lage called Rathfarnam, near Dublin, 1665. He 
was bred up under Mr. Secretary Southwell, and 
had for some years a seat in his office ; being an ex- 
cellent clerk, and wrote a fine hand. Upon the 
breaking out of King James's wars in Ireland, Mr. 
Wilks was forced into the army by Capt. Bourk, and 
was exempted from military duty, being made clerk 
to the camp. But the natural propensity of his ge- 
nius was wholly turned towards the stage ; and hear- 
ing so much of the just praises of Mr. Bettertoir's 
merit, he was not easy till he came over, and pri- 
vately by a stratagem escaped from his military 
clerkship. 

At his arrival in England, he was indeed enter- 
tained by Mr. Christopher Rich ; but on no higher 
terms than fifteen shillings per week, out of which he 
was to allow ten shillings per month for learning to 
dance. 

Mr. Harris was the master of whom he learnt ; 
and at whose school, after Mr. Wilks had been a- 
bove a year in England, he saw a young gentlewo- 
man of about twenty years of age, with whom he fell 
in love. This was Miss Elizabeth Knapton, young- 
est daughter of Ferdinando Knapton, Esq. Town 
Clerk of Southampton, and steward of the new for- 
est. In due time she brought Mr. Wilks a son, who 
was christened Robert. The child was put to nurse, 
and committed to the guardianship of Mr. Bowen 
the player, upon Mr. Wilks' return to Ireland, who 
took his wife with him, upon the following occasion : 

Mr. Ash bury, master of the Dublin Theatre, com- 



iHE ENGLISH STAGE. 117 

ing over to recruit his stage, Mr. Betterton thinking 
Mr. Rich did not give Mi?. Wilks sufficient encour- 
agement, especially since he had now an increasing 
family to provide for, earnestly recommended Mr. 
Wilks to Mr. Ashbury, as a young man of very 
growing hopes, and deserving of favours. From this 
character given of him, Mr. Ashbury contracted with 
Wilks for 501. a year certain, and a benefit play. 
Upon these terms was Mr. Rich deprived of Mr. 
Wilks. Rut it was not long before he was made 
sensible of his loss, and forced to send a special mes- 
senger to Ireland to regain him. The person deput- 
ed to go was Mr. Swinney, who with great privacy 
got Mr. Wilks arid his wife back, after contracting 
to allow him 4Z. per week; the Duke of Ormond 
having issued a warrant that Mr. Wilks should not 
depart the kingdom, so much was he beloved in Ire- 
land. However, Mr. Rich was rightly served ; and 
Mr. Wilks but justly rewarded. 

Upon this, Mr. Wilks' dear friend Mr. Farquhar 
left the Irish stage, and came over with him, which 
was owing to a melancholy accident. 

Mr. Farquhar was also extremely beloved in Ire- 
land, and had indeed the advantage of a very good 
person, though his voice was weak ; but as he never 
met with the least repulse from the audienee in any 
of iiis performances, he was resolved to continue on 
the stage, till something better should offer ; but this 
« resolution was soon broke by an accident. 

Mr. Farquhar being to play the part of Guyomar, 
in the Indian Emveror, who kills Yasquez, one of 



118 THE HISTORY OF 

the Spanish Generals, and forgetting to exchange his 
sword for a foil in the engagement, he wounded his 
brother tragedian, who acted Vasquez, very danger- 
ously; and though it proved not mortal, yet it so 
shocked the natural tenderness of Mr. Farquhar's 
temper, that it put a period to his acting ever after. 
But in a short time the Earl of Orrery, in regard to 
his particular merit, gave him a lieutenancy in his 
regiment then in Ireland. 

Mr. Wilks, well knowing the abilities of Mr. 
Farquhar, after their arrival in England, he never 
ceased his importunities with him, till he had pre- 
vailed on him to write a play ; assuring him that he 
would gain much more reputation by writing for the 
stage, than appearing on it. 

The King, in the Island Princess, was the first 
part Mr. Wilkes played at his return to England ; 
upon which occasion he thus addressed the audience. 

As a poor stranger wreck'd upon the coast, 

With fear and wonder views the dangers past j 

So I, with dreadful apprehension stand, 

And thank those pow'rs that brought me safe to land. 

With joy I view the smiling country o'er, 

And find, kind heav'ns ! an hospitable shore. 

'Tis England- this your charities declare 

But more the charms to British beauties there : 
Beauties that celebrate this Isle afar, 
They by their smiles, as much as you by war 
True love, true honour, I can't fail to play, 
Such lively patterns you before me lay. 
Void of offence, tho' not from censure free, 
I left a distant Isle too kind to me : 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 119 

Loaded with favours I was fore'd away, 
Unwilling to accept, and ne'er eou'd pay. 
There I cou'd please ; but here my fame must end, 
For hither none must come to boast, but mend. 
Improvement must be great, since here I find 
Precepts, examples, and my masters kind.* 

In the year 1698, Mr. Farquhar, having taken 
Mr. Wilks ? advice, had a Comedy brought upon the 
stage, called Love and a Bottle. To which there 
was a very humorous Prologue and Epilogue, both 
written by Jo. Haynes, the latter spoken by him in 
mourning. Mr. Wilks had not any part in this play ; 
but Miss Rogers (of whom more hereafter) acted Lu- 
cinda, a lady of considerable fortune^ and Mr. Mills 
Lovewell, her gallant. 

About this time the English Theatre was not only 
pestered with tumblers, and rope-dances from France, 
but likewise dancing masters, and dancing dogs ; 
shoals of Italian squallers were daily imported and 
the Drury-lane company almost broke. Upon this 
occasion it was, that the facetious Jo. Haynes com- 
posed this Epilogue, and spoke it in mourning. 

I come not here your Poet's fate to see, 

He, and his play, may both be damn'd for me ; 

No, Royal Theatre, I come to mourn for thee. 

And must these structures then untimely fall, 

While t'other house stands, and gets the devil and all ? 

Must still kind fortune thro' all weathers steer 'em, 

And beauties bloom there, 'spite of Edax Reruni? 

Vivitur Ingenio ; that curst motto there,. 

* These verses were by Mr. Farquhar. 



120 THE HISTORY OF 

Seduc'd me first to be a wicked player:* 

Hard times indeed ; temp or a ! mores! 

I know that stage must down, where not one whore is. 

But can ye have the hearts tho' — pray now speak, 

After all these services, to let us break ? 

Ye cannot do't, unless the devil's in ye : 

What art, what merit, ha'n't we ns'd to win ye ? 

First, to divert ye with some new French strollers. 

We brought ye Bona Seres Barba Colers.j 

When their male throats no longer drew your money, 

We got y* an Eunuch Pipe, Signior Rompony. 

That beardless songster we cou'd ne'er make much on, 

The females spi'd a blotch within his scutcheon.} 

An Italian now we'ye got of mighty fame, 

Don Sigismondo Fideli — there's music in his name : 

His voice is like the music of the spheres ; 

It shou'd be Iieav'nly for the price it bears4 

He's a handsome fellow too, looks brisk and trim, 

If he don't take you, then the devil take him. 

Besides, lest our white faces mayn't always delight ye, 

Yfe'vc piekYi up Gipsies now, to please, or fright ye. 

Lastly, to make our house more courtly shine ? 
As travel does the man of mode refine; 
To mend the manners and course English feeding, 
They went to Ireland, to improve their breeding : 
Yet for all this, we still are at a loss — 
O Collier, Collier, thou'st frighted away Miss Cross. 
She, to return our foreigners complaisance, 
At Cupid's call,' has made atrip to France. 
Love's fire-arms here are since not worth a sous : 
We've lost the prettiest jewel of our house. 
Losing that jewel gave us a fatal blow : 
Weil, if thin audiences must Jo. Haynes undo ! 

* Looks up at lie motto over the stage in Drury Lane. 

f Mimicks French Singing. |Term of Heraldry. 

§ Twenty pounds per night. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 121 

Well, if 'tis decreed, nor can thy fate, O stage ! 
Resist the fate of this obdurate age, 
I'll then grow wiser, leave off playing the fool, . 
And hire this play house for a Boarding school. 
D'ye think the maids won't be in a sweet condition, 
When they're under Jo. Haynes grave tuition ; 
They'll have no .occasion then, Pin sure to play, 
They'll have such comings-in another way. 

This Epilogue was many times spoken with uni- 
versal applause, not only to this, but several other 
plays, as a just rebuke of the vitiated taste of the town. 
And it might now be revived with the greatest jus- 
tice, in opposition to our present polite taste, when 
nothing will go down but ballad-operas and Mr. 
Lun ? s buffoonery. Such are our stage entertain- 
ments : and what we are still to expect from the 
theatres of Bow Street and Lincoln's Inn Fields. 

Mr. Haynes" s lash on the Drury Lane actors, who 
went to Ireland to learn breeding, was levelled at 
those that accompanied Mr. Wilks baek, with Mr. 
Ashbury, on the occasion before mentioned, and a 
very just one, want of encouragement. 

Mr. Wilks's son Robert, whom he left under the 
care of Mr. Bo wen, as has been mentioned, died an 
infant. He had nine more children, who underwent 
the same untimely fate, but one daughter, whose 
name was Frances, lived to be married to Capt. Price, 
in the eighteenth year of her age. She unhappily 
died of the small pox, at her father-in-law's house, 
at Tiptry," near Colchester, in Essex, before she was 
twenty, And in one and the same year, Mr. Wilks 
46 



122 THE HISTOltY OF 

had the misfortune to lose both his wife, and his on- 
ly child. 

Mrs. Wilks was buried in the Parish Church of 
St. Paul, Covent Garden. There is erected to her 
deserving memory, a very handsome monument, 
whereon is the underwritten inscription. 

Beneath this Marble, 

Lies Elizabeth Wilks, late wife of Robert Wilks, 

Of this Parish, Gent. 

The purity of her mind, 

Which appeared in all the duties of a virtuous life, 

Made her a good Wife, 

Daughter, Mother and Friend, 

Her affeetion was, like her piety, 

Constant, as unfeigned, to her last moment. 

In memory of her virtues, 

This was erected by her husband. 

She died the 21st day of March, 1713— 1% 

In the 42d year of her age. 

Mr. Wilks was a second time married to Mrs. 
Mary Fell, relict of Charles Fell, Esq. of Swart- 
more, in Lancashire, whom, suitable to her deserts, 
he constituted his sole Executrix. 

This excellent Comedian died at his own house, in 
Bow Street, Covent Garden, on the 27th day of Sep- 
tember, 1732, and was very genteelly interred at his 
Parish Church, on the fourth day of October. Here 
follows a true copy of his last Will and Testament. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 123 

•A true copy of the last Will and Testament of Rob- 
ert Will's, Esq. 

In the name of God, Amen, I Robert Wilks, of 
the Parish,of St. Paul, Covent Garden, in the county 
of Middlesex, Gent, being sound and perfect in my 
mind and memory, and therefore willing at this time 
to dispose my affairs in the best and most prudent 
manner I am able, do make and constitute this my 
last Will and Testament, in manner and form fol- 
lowing. 

First, I resign my soul to Almighty God my Cre- 
ator, and hope, through his mercy, forgiveness of my 
sins and eternal life. I commit my body to the earth, 
and desire it may be decently interred at the discre- 
tion of my executrix herein after named. And as to 
all the worldly estate of which I shall die possessed, 
I dispose the same in manner following. 

Imprimis, I will that all my debts and funeral ex- 
pences shall be fully paid and satisfied by my Execu- 
trix herein after named. 

Item, I do hereby give, devise, and bequeath all 
my right, title, and interest in the Patent, granted by 
his present Majesty King George the second, to Rob- 
ert Wilks, Colley Cibber, and Barton Booth, their 
Executors, Administrators, and Assigns, for the term 
of one and twenty years^ to commence from the first 
day of September, 1733, to my dear wife Mary Wilks. 

And I do likewise give, devise, and bequeath, my 
house, situate in Bow Street, Covent Garden, where- 
in I now dwell, together with the Back house, Brew 
house, Laundry, and all the appurtenances thereunto 



l&fc THE HISTORY OF 

belonging, with all niy right, title, and interest there- 
in ; and also all my household goods and furniture, 
of what nature or kind soever ; and also all my jew- 
els, plate, linen, bedding, and personal estate what- 
soever, to my dear wife Mary Wilks. And I do 
hereby recommend it to my said wife, to leave to my 
daughter-in-law Mary Frances Shaw (if she be liv- 
ing at the time of her decease) such part of what I 
have hereby given and bequeathed unto my said wife, 
as she shall think fitting. 

And lastly, I do hereby nominate, constitute, and 
appoint my said dear wife, Mary Wilks, sole Exec- 
utrix of this my last Will and Testament, written 
with my own hand. 

In witness whereof 1 have hereunto set my hand 
and seal, in the sight and presence of three witness- 
es, whose names are hereunto subscribed, this 30th 
day of May, in the year of our Lord 1732. 

ROBERT WILKS. 

Signed, sealed, and published by the said Robert 
Wilks, the Testator, as his last Will and Testament, 
in the sight and presence of us whose hands are here- 
under written, and who signed our hands as witness- 
es to the same, in the sight and presence of the Tes- 
tator. 

Jo. Birkhead, sen. 

D. Birkhead, jr. 

Wm. Hemming. 

Mr. Henry JV'orris, 

Commonly called Jubilee Dicky for his excellent 
performance in Mr. Farquhar's Trip to the Jubilee f 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 125 

was born in Salisbury Court, Fleet Street, 1665. 
His mother was the first woman who ever appeared 
on the stage as an actress ; for, till some time after 
the restoration of King Charles II. the women's parts 
were performed by men, among whom the celebrated 
Mr. Kynaston made a very fine lady, and occasion- 
ed a very good jest. His Majesty being at a repre- 
sentation of Hamlet, and thinking the entry of the 
Queen, in that play, a little too tedious, one of the 
actors most humbly acquainted the audience that the 
Queen* was not quite shaved. 

Mr. Norris became brother-in-law to Mr. Wilks, 
by marrying Miss Sarah Knapton, his wife's sister. 

Memoirs of Mr. Booth. 

Barton Booth, Esq. was very well descended, and 
nearly related to the Earl of Warrington ; nay, he 
has assured me that his family always looked upon 
themselves as the eldest branch of the house of Booth. 
This excellent Tragedian was the son of John Booth, 
Esq. born 1681. 

Lancashire was the county of his natirity, from 
whence his father, with his whole family, removed to 
town, and settled at Westminster, 1684. Mr. Booth, 
the youngest of three sons, was, at nine years of age, 
put under the tuition of the celebrated Dr. Busby, 
under whom he became an excellent scholar. He 
showed, while at school, his great inclination to po- 
etry ; and was very fond of repeating poetical per 

Mr. Kynaston then played the Qneen, 



126 THE HISTORY OF 

formances and parts of plays, in all which he dis- 
covered a very promising genius for the stage. But 
Mr. Booth's first encouragement in acting came from 
his master, at the rehearsal of a Latin play, in which 
he performed with general applause. 

The following part of a Prologue was spoken at 
"Westminster school, which will evidently discover 
their high esteem for Mr. Booth, as an actor. 

Your antique actors, as we read, 

No more than anticks were indeed : 

With wide mouth'd masks their babes to fright. 

They kept the countenance from sight. 

Now faces on the stage are shown ; 

Nor speak they with their tongues alone, 

But in each look a force there lies, 

That speaks the passion to the eyes. 

See then, which best deserves our praise, 

The vizard, or the human face ? 

Old Roscius to our Booth must bow ; 

'Twas then but art, 'tis nature now. 

Mr. Booth was at that time designed by his father 
for orders ; but as he had received such early prais- 
es of his blooming qualifications for an actor, and 
that from persons of such importance, it was not to 
be wondered at, that his inclination led him to the 
stage ; in pursuance of which, and to avoid being sent 
to the University, he ran away from school at seven- 
teen years old, and went to Ireland, where he enter- 
ed himself with Mr. Ashbury, manager of the Thea- 
tre at Dublin. 

He remained there two years, and acquired the 
reputation of a very good player. He returned to 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 1§7 

England in 1701, and applied himself to Lord Fitz- 
harding, a Lord of the bedchamber to Prinee George 
of Denmark. His Lordship recommended him to 
Mr. Betterton as a very promising genius, who took 
him under his care, and made him what he was. The 
part of Maximus in Valentinici7i was chosen for his 
first appearance. Mr. Verbruggen played Valen- 
tinian, Mr. Betterton, Etius, and Miss Barry, Luci- 
na. There never was more applause expressed by 
any audience, than was given to Mr. Booth on that 
occasion. 

Soon after he again appeared with universal ap- 
plause, in the character of Artaban, in the Ambitious 
Step-Mother. 

In the year 1704, he married Miss Frances Bark- 
ham, second daughter of Sir William Barkham, 
Bart, of Norfolk, who died in 1710, without issue. 

Cato greatly augmented both Mr. Booth's fame 
and interest, by procuring him the favour of Lord 
Bolingbroke, then secretary of state, who, within a 
year after, as a reward for so much singular merit, 
got him added to the number of the managers, by 
procuring him a special licence from Queen Anne. 

Mr. Booth performed many of Mr. Betterton's 
parts in such a manner, as demonstrated both tutor and 
pupil. Mortality deprived us of him May 10, 1733. 

A true copy of Mr. Booth's last Will and Testament, 
drawn up by himself. 
Wholly resigned, and submitted to the will of 
God, I Barton Booth, of the parish of St. Paul, Co- 



128 THE HISTORY 01' 

vent Garden, do make and ordain this my last Will 
and Testament, as follows. 

I bequeath to Christian Hannah, the sum of 5l. an 
old servant to my father. 

All and singular my estate, as well real as person- 
al, ready money, bonds, notes, plate, jewels, goods 
and chattels of what kind or nature soever, I give 
and bequeath absolutely to my dearest and well be- 
loved wife, Hester Booth,* her heirs, executors, and 
assigns forever ; and I appoint and constitute my 
said wife, Hester Booth, full and sole Executrix of 
this my last "Will and Testament, hereby revoking 
and making void all other "Wills by me made. 

It is my earnest desire to be buried privately, 
without ostentation, hatchment, escutcheon, &c. in 
Cowley church near Uxbridge. 

As I have been a man much known and talked of, 
my not leaving legacies to ray relations may give oc- 
casion to censorious people to reflect upon my con- 
duct in this latter act of my life ; therefore I think it 
necessary to declare, that I have considered my cir- 
cumstances, aud finding, upon a strict examination, 
that all I am now possessed of, does not amount to 
two thirds of the fortune my said wife brought me on 
the day of our marriage, together with the yearly 
additions and advantages since arising from her labo- 
rious employment upon the stage, during twelve years 
past, I thought myself bound by that honesty, honor, 

* Mr. Booth married a second time 1719, the celebrated Miss 
Saritlow. lie had no issue by her, but she had some of her 
own, a daughter of her's being lately married. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 1S9 

and gratitude, due to her constant affection, not to 
give away any part of the remainder of her fortune 
at my death, having already bestowed in free gifts 
upon my sister, Barbara Rogers, upwards of 1300L 
out of my wife's substauce ; and full 400Z. of her 
money upon my undeserving brother, George Booth, 
besides the gifts they received before my marriage ; 
and all these benefits were conferred on my said broth- 
er and sister, from time to time, at the earnest solic- 
itation of my wife, who was perpetually intreating 
me to continue the allowances I gave my relations 
before my marriage. The inhuman return that has 
been made my wife for these obligations, by my sis- 
ter, I forbear to mention. Once more renouncing 
and making void all former Wills, T declare this 
present Testament to be my true and last Will. In 
witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand and 
seal this &d of June, 1731. All written with my own 
hand. B. Booth. 

A character of Mr. Booth, by Aaron Hill, Esq. 

Two advantages distinguished him, in the strong- 
est light, from the rest of his fraternity ; he had 
learning to understand perfectly whatever it was his 
part to speak ; and judgment to know how far it a- 
greed or disagreed with his character. Hence arose 
a peculiar grace, which was visible to every specta- 
tor ; though few were at the pains of examining into 
the cause of their pleasure. He could soften and 
slide over, with a kind of elegant negligence, the im- 
proprieties in a part he acted, while, on the contra- 
17 



130 , THE HISTORY OF 

ry, he would dwell with energy upon the beauties ; 
as if he exerted a latent spirit, which had been kept 
back for ^ueh an occasion, that he might alarm a- 
waken, and transport, in those places only, where 
the dignity of his own good sense could be support- 
ed by that of his author. 

A little reflection upon this remarkable quality, 
will teach us to account for that manifest languor 
which has sometimes been observed in his action, and 
which was generally, though I think falsely, imput- 
ed to the natural indolence of his temper. 

For the same reason though in the customary 
rounds of his business he would condescend to some 
parts in comedy, he seldom appeared in any of them 
with much advantage to his character. The pas- 
sions which he found in comedy were not strong 
enough to excite his fire ; and what seemed want of 
qualification, was only absence of impression. 

He had a talent at discovering the passions, where 
they lay hid in some celebrated parts, by the injudi- 
cious practice of other actors. When he had dis- 
covered, he soon grew able to express them ; and his 
secret for attaining this great lesson of the Theatre, 
was an adaption of his look to his voice ; by which 
artful imitation of nature, the variations in the sound 
of his words gave propriety to every change in his 
countenance. So that it was Mr. Booth's peculiar 
felieity to be heard and seen the same, whether as 
the pleased, the grieved, the pitying, the reproachful, 
or the angry. 

One would almost be tempted to borrow the aid of 
a very bold figure-, and, to express this excellence 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 131 

the more significantly, beg permission to affirm, that 
the blind might have seen him in his voice, and the 
deaf have heard him in his visage. 

His gesture, or, as it is commonly called, his ac- 
tion was but the result and necessary consequence of 
this dominion over his voice and countenance ; for 
having by a concurrence of two such causes, impress- 
ed his imagination with such a stamp and spirit of 
passion, his nerves obeyed the impulse by a kind of 
natural dependency, and relaxed or braced succes- 
sively into all that fine expressiveness, with which 
he painted what he spoke, without restraint or afi#c- 
tation. A. Hill. 

Mr. Booth was a man of strong, clear, and lively 
imaginations. His conversation was engaging and 
instructive. He had the advantage of a finished ed- 
ucation, to improve and illustrate the bountiful gifts 
of nature ; as will appear by the following inscrip- 
tion, which he wrote under the picture of that cele- 
brated actor Mr. Smith, which has been greatly ad- 
mired for the clasical style and sentiment. 

Scenicus eximius, 

Regnante Carolo Secundo : 

Betteftono Cocetaneus §* Amicus. 

nee no7i propemodum Squalls. 

Hand ignobili Stirpe oriundus, 

nee Literarum rudis humaniorum, 

rem Scenicam 

jier multos feliciter Annas administravit ; 

Justoque moderamine 8f morum suavitate, 



132 THE HISTORY OF 

Omnium intra Theatrum 

Observantiam, extra Theatrum Laudem, 

TJbique Benevolentiam §" JLmorem, sibi conciliavif. 

An excellent Player, 

in the reign of Charles the Second : 

The cotemporary and friend of Betterton, 

and almost his equal. 

Descended of no ignoble family, 

nor destitute of polite learning, 

the business of the stage 

he for many years happily managed, 

And by his just conduct, and sweetness of manners, 

he obtained 

the respect of all within the Theatre, 

the good will and love of all mankind. 

Mr. Booth had a very pretty poetical genius, as 
appears from some translations and imitations of his 
beloved Horace. And his beautiful song of Sweet 
are the charms of her I love, &c. may justly be reck- 
oned a master piece in its kind. 

He was interred at Cowley ; but we do not hear 
that his most beloved wife hath, as yet, erected any 
monument to his memory. He many years himself 
talked of putting up some memorial at Westminster, 
for Mr. Betterton ; but these promises were merely 
serial. He has indeed by the denomination of three 
streets in Westminster, viz. Cowley-street ; Bar- 
ton-street, and Booth-street, perpetuated the mem 
ory of Mr. Cowley, whose writings he professed a 



THE ENGLISH STAGE.. 133 

value for beyond any other English poet, and the 
name of himself and family. 

Mr. Thomas Elrington, 

Was born about the year 1690, near Golden -square. 
His father had the honor to serve the late Duke of 
Montague. He put this son an apprentice to an Up- 
holster in Covent.Grarden, who, at the expiration of 
his time, immediately entered himself with the com- 
pany of comedians in Drury-lane, and appeared in 
the character of Oroonoko, in which he gave evident 
proofs of a rising genius ; but not meeting with the 
encouragement from the directors his merit demand- 
ed, he went over to Ireland, and became one of the 
managers of that Theatre. 

About the year 1716, he married the daughter of 
Joseph Ashbury Esq. then master of the revels,* by 
whom he had several children. His reputation as 
an actor daily increasing, he was sent for over to 
England, and performed in the theatre in Lincoln's 
Inn Fields, most of the considerable characters in 
tragedy ; for which nature had very happily adapt- 
ed him, his person being very proportionable, and his 
gait very genteel ; he had likewise a most harmoni- 
ous voice, with great spirit and fire, and wanted on- 
ly a more liberal education, to have become one of 
the greatest tragedians thig age has produced. He 
returned back to his family, in Ireland, in which 
kingdom he died, about the year 1733, universally 
beloved and lamented. 

* A facetious intimation of manager. 



134 THE HISTOKY OF 

Mr. Benjamin Griffin. 

This useful comedian of the humorous class, was 
the sou of the reverend Mr. Benjamin Griffin, Hector 
of Buxton and Oxnead in the county of Norfolk ; the 
seats of the Pastons, Earls of Yarmouth ; to which 
honorable family he was many years chaplain. 

Our actor was born at Oxnead, and educated at the 
free school of Northwalshain, founded by the noble 
family beforementioned. 

He was put apprentice to a Glaizer at Norwich ; 
but playing running more in his head, than glazing, 
he run away from his master, and got initiated among 
a pack of strollers, who frequented the city, in the 
year 1713. 

He came to London 1715? and was taken into the 
Lincoln's Inn Fields company ; and after some years 
experience, he was accepted of at the Theatre Royal 
in Drury-lane? where he continued to the time of his 
death, 1739. 

By mistaking his talents, he attempted to com- 
mence dramatic poet, by vamping up an old play or 
two of Massinger and Decker, and scribbling a few 
farces, all which met with the deserved contempt of 
such trifling performances. 

Mr. James Qiiin. 

This worthy successor of Mr. Booth, was born in 
King Street, Covent Garden, 24th of February, 1692. 
He is the son of James Quin Gent, who was bred at 
Trinity College Dublin ; came into England, and en- 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 135 

tereci himself of the society of Lincoln's Inn ; but his 
father, Mr. Mark Quin, Apothecary, and Lord May- 
or of Dublin, I676, dying soon after, he was called 
to the bar, and leaving him a considerable fortune, 
he declined the practice of the law. 

Our excellent Tragedian, being carried by his 
father into Ireland in the year 1700, then but eight 
years old, was educated under that eminent school- 
master the Rev. Dr. Jones of Dublin. 

On the death of his father, 1710, he was obliged to 
commence a suit in Chancery, for the right and pos- 
session of his patrimony ; but being unable to sup- 
port the great expence of that epurfc, he was obliged 
to leave his right undetermined, and for a time to 
drop his claim. 

From this disappointment at law, he was advised 
by his friends, to cultivate a natural propensity, and 
apply himself to the stage, which he did with some 
success in that kingdom. But the Irish Theatre then 
labouring under great discouragement, he returned 
to England, 1714, and was immediately received in- 
to the company of his Majesty's servants belonging 
to the Drury Lane Theatre. 

He continued in that company about three years : 
but upon some unkind treatment from one of the 
Managers, he changed his situation, and was receiv- 
ed with great satisfaction by Mr. Rich, then acting 
at the Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields. In that 
company he continued sixteen years. 

In 1734, Charles Fleetwood, Esq. having purchas 
ed the Drury Lane pateut, made Mr. Quin some 



136 THE HISTORY OF 

very advantageous proposals, which he would not. 
on any terms accept, till he had previously acquaint- 
ed Mr. Rich therewith, and given him the preference 
of his services. But on Mr. Rich's refusal, he, in 
justice to himself, accepted the overtures made him 
by Mr. Fleetwood. 

Mr. Quin performs the following parts with uni- 
versal applause, viz. Appamantus in Timon of Ath- 
ens, Baron in Fatal Marriage, Brutus in Julius Ce- 
sar, Benedict in Much ado about Nothing, the Duke 
in Measure for Measure, Borax in Don Sebastian, 
Thersites in Troilus and Cressida, Falstaff, Val- 
pone, King Lear, Richard Third, Henry Eighth, 
the Plain Dealer, the Double Dealer, Pinchwife, 
Old Batchelor, the Spanish Friar, Othello, Tamer- 
lane, Cato, &c. 

In regard to Mr. Quin's Dramatic character, it 
may be thus justly comprised : 

He from due merit his applause obtains ; 

He wants no judgment, and he spares no pains. 

Mr. William Milward, 



This gentleman is a native of the city of Litchfield, 
where he was born on the &9th September, 1703. 
His father was an eminent Attorney at Law, at that 
time residing there. The Milwards are descended 
from an ancient family in the county of Derby, well 
known for their loyalty and steady attachment to 
their Prince ; as a proof of which, in the troubles of 
King Charles I. the great grand father of our player. 



THE ENGLISH STAiiE. 137 

Sir Thomas Milward, Knight, Chief Justice of Ches- 
ter, at his own expence, raised and maintained a 
troop of horse in defence of his King and country 5 
among whom were likewise his grandfather, and sev- 
eral other relations of Mr. Milward, to whom I will 
now return. His father, when he was very young, 
removing from Litchfield to Uttoxeter, a market town 
in the same county, he had his education in the gram- 
mar school there ; which school is always supplied 
with masters from Trinity College, in Cambridge, 
and a yearly stipend from the said College allowed 
for their support. Before the age of sixteen, he came 
with his father to London, and was put apprentice 
to an Apothecary in Norfolk Street, in the Strand, 
1717; with whom he continued near eight years ; but 
being acquainted with some young gentlemen, some- 
times acted plays privately for the diversion of them- 
selves and friends, he was prevailed on to join them, 
and accordingly performed several parts among them, 
in a small private Theatre made at the Hoop tavern, 
in St. Albans Street. Being flattered by some friends 
that he would make a considerable figure on a pub- 
lic stage, to which his genius strongly led him, he 
resolved to quit tlie study of physic for that of the 
Drama ; and accordingly, in the year 17&4, com- 
menced at the new Theatre in the Hay Market, with 
a young company who had never appeared on a pub- 
lic stage ; whose incapacity and inexperience soon 
gave way to two established Theatres, and obliged 
them to provide other ways for themselves, according 
to their different capacities. Some quitted the thoughts 
18 



138 THE UISTOliy OF 

of the stage ; others, by flattery and their own incli- 
nations, resolved to pursue that way of life 5 among 
whom Mr. Mil ward was one ; and in the year 1725, 
engaged in Mr. Rich's company at the Theatre in 
Lincoln's Inn Fields, where he continued' till the 
opening of the Theatre in Oovent Garden, and all 
that season ; at the end of which he had overtures 
from the company of Comedians who had just separ- 
ated themselves from the Managers of the Theatre 
Royal in Drury Lane, with whom, after he had re- 
ceived a message from Mr. Rich that the salary he 
expected would not be complied with, and giving him 
proper notice, he again agreed to perform at the New 
Theatre in the Hay Market, where he continued till 
the company agreed with Mr. Fleetwood to return 
again to Drury Lane, under whose direction they 
now are. The parts Mr. Milward is possessed of 
being too numerous to be recited, the town are the 
best judges of his daily improvement; and he may 
be justly thought to be the most proper successor of 
Mr. Quin, who has now left this stage and kingdom. 

Mr. Henry Giffard. 

This gentleman is the youngest of eight sons of 
William Giffard, Esq. of the county of Bucks ; he 
was born in Lincoln's Inn Fields in the year 1699, 
and educated at a private grammar school in Lon- 
don. At about sixteen years of age, through the in- 
terest of his father, he was appointed one of the 
clerks of the South Sea company, in which post he 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 139 

continued near three years ; but Laving a stronger 
propensity to the martial acts of the stage than the 
mercantile accompts of the State, he made an excur- 
sion, and entered himself among the Bath strolling 
company of Comedians, 1719, whose fortunes he fol- 
lowed two years, wholly unknown to all his friends. 
Returning to town, and hoping to atone for this ex- 
cursion with his father, who was then in London in 
a very declining state of health, he was disappointed 
in these hopes by his father's death, which happened 
in about six months after. Being thus left wholly 
destitute, and deprived of his fortune as a severe 
punishment for his fault, he was obliged to make the 
best of that inclination which prompted him to the 
commission of it. He was taken into Mr. Rich's 
company. Here he staid about two years, and then 
went to Ireland. In the Dublin Theatre he was very 
readily accepted, and in a very short time was ad- 
mitted one of the sharers. Soon after he married a 
young gentlewoman of that Theatre, who died be- 
fore she was twenty years of age, in childbed of a 
daughter ; but, as some compensation for so great a 
loss, she left him a son, now about her age. She 
had a very promising genius to have shone in her 
profession ; was very amiable in her person, and in 
her affection as a wife, every way deserving praise. 

About six years afterwards he married another 
gentlewoman of the same Theatre ; by whom he has 
had issue one daughter, who died an infant of but 
two years old. 

Mr. Giffard and his wife came to England 1730. 



14jO the history of 

Here it must be observed, that he had some hopes of 
success, from an invitation made him, with great show 
of friendship, by Mr. Wilks. But Mr. Giffard not 
brooking too long a delay, and the project of the 
Goodman's Fields Theatre just then opening, he clos- 
ed in with that undertaker ; who not succeeding 
therein, Mr. Giffard from a different conduct became 
the sole proprietor ; and in 1733, rebuilt it in a very 
commodious manner, giving universal satisfaction to 
the town, as he does at present, by his regularity and 
prudent behaviour. 

Under this article of Mr. Giffard's fortunes, we 
cannot omit mentioning one of his company? for whom 
he had the greatest and most friendly regard. 

Mr. Charles Hulett. 

He was the son of Mr. John Hulett, yeoman of the 
Guards, a Warder of the Tower, and out Steward to 
the Earl of Northampton, and born in Russell Street, 
Bloomsbury, 1701. Having had a tolerable educa- 
tion, he was put apprentice to Mr. Curll, Book- 
seller, in the year 17 18. After he had served about 
two years, he took it into his head, that there was 
more to be got by acting of plays, than by selling of 
them. His master very generously advised his fath- 
er to let him prosecute the bent of his genius, and 
very amicably surrendered him up to the stage. He 
trod the Theatres of Lincoln's Inn Fields and Dub- 
lin ; but found the most hospitable entertainment with 
bis valuable friend Mr. Giffard. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 141 

He was taken off in the vigour of his age, in a most 
sudden and surprising manner, being very fond of 
shewing the strength and soundness of his lungs, as 
he imagined, by loud hemming, one day, as he was in 
the Green-Room at Goodman's Fields, to shew the 
clearness of his pipes, as he expressed himself, he 
fetched a very hearty hem, with such violence, that 
he broke some considerable blood-vessel ; for in a 
short time lie found himself giddy, sick, and turned 
pale. He went behind the scene and a large quan- 
tity of blood issuing from his mouth, almost un- 
known to him, he was advised to go home. Mr. 
Giffard sent for Dr. Beaufort, and another emi- 
nent physician ; but the flux of blood continuing in 
so large a quantity from his mouth, as was comput- 
ed in the whole to be near two gallons, they thought 
it in vaiu to prescribe, and he died the S4th hour 
after his hemming. An accident of this kind, was 
looked on as unheard of before. 

Both nature and inclination had formed him for a 
very excellent player, had he lived ; and what he 
was at the time of his death, will be seen from the 
following just character given of him by Mr. Giffard, 
who buried him in a very genteel manner, at his own 
expence, at St. Mary White-Chapel, in the 35th 
year of his age. He has left a son about eight years 
old. 

"Mr. Charles Hulett was endowed with great 
abilities for a player ; but laboured under the disad- 
vantage of a person rather too corpulent for the hero 
or the lover, but his port well became Henry VIII , 



142 THE HISTORY OF 

Falstaff, Othello, and many other characters both in 
tragedy and comedy, in which he would have been 
equally excellent, had his application and fig are 
been proportionable to his qualifications ; which had 
he duly cultivated, he would undoubtedly have be- 
come a very considerable performer." 

Mr. Lacey Ryan. 

He is the son of Mr. Daniel Ryan, a taylor, of the 
parish of St. Margaret Westminster, and was born 
in the year 1700 : he had his education at St. Paul's- 
School ; after which it was intended to breed him to 
the law, and he was a short time with Mr. Lacey, 
an attorney, his Grodfather. He had once some 
thoughts of going to the East-Indies, with his broth- 
er, who died there 1719, but a stronger propensity 
to the stage prevailing by the friendship of Sir 
Richard Steele he was introduced into the Hay- 
Market Company 1710. In that company he con- 
tinued about seven years, and afterwards went to 
the Lincoln's-Inu-Fields Company under Mr. Chris- 
topher Bullock. Among all the parts performed by 
him ; Hamlet is looked upon as his master-piece. 

Mr. Thomas Walker, 

He is the son of Frauds Walker, of the parish of 
St. Anne Sobo, and was born in the year 1698. 
He was bred under Mr. Midon, who kept a private 
Academv. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. , 143 

Having an inclination to the stage, lie first tried 
liis success in Mr. Sheppard's Company ; and was 
found by Mr. Booth acting the part of Paris in the 
Droll of The Siege of Troy. 

The first Theatre whereon he appeared, was that 
of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, where he played the part 
of Lorenzo in The Jew of Venice, about the year 
1716. But Capt. Mackheath, in the Beggar's Ope- 
ra is his top dramatic character ; so that as Mr. 
Booth found him a hero, Mr. Gay dubbed him a 
highwayman. Sic transit Gloria Mundi. 



Miss Margaret Saunders, 

Is the daughter of Mr. Jonathan Saunders, ail 
eminent Wine-Cooper. She was born at Wey- 
mouth, in the year 1686. Her mother was the 
daughter of Capt. Wallis, an experienced sea-officer 
of distinction in that place. 

She was sent by her parents to a boarding-school 
at Steeple- Ashton in Wiltshire, where having had a 
genteel education, she was put apprentice to Mrs. 
Fane, an eminent milliner in Catherine- Street in the 
Strand. 

After the expiration of her time, she was, at the 
earnest request of her hearty friend Miss Oldfield, 
though but 16 years of age, brought on the Drury- 
Lane Theatre ; but was obliged to quit it, occasioned 
by a very violent Asthmatical indisposition, as has 
been before observed in the memoirs of Miss Old- 
field, page 74, subjoined to this work. 



114 THE HISTORY OF 

Miss Younger and Miss Bignall. 

To the Author of the History of the Stage. 

Watford, June 22d, 1736. 
Sir, 

I had the pleasure of yours when at Busbyc. At 
the same.time Miss Younger received one ; she de- 
sired her compliments, and begs to be excused writ- 
ing ; but it matters not ; for I being conversant with 
her many years, can give you a just account of her 
family; and as for her merit on the stage, you are a 
much better judge than myself. It ever was the 
opinion of the town that both she and her sister* 
were excellent in their way. 

Her father and. mother, James and Margaret 
Younger, were born in Scotland. Her mother was 
a Keith, nearly related to the late Earl Marshal : 
her father rode in the third troop of Guards, and 
served several years in Flanders under King Wil- 
liam. 

She was born Sept. gd, 1699, and came into the 
house, as neaj* as I can guess, at seven years old, 
and has ever behaved with the greatest prudence. 

Her first part was Princess Elizabeth. This is 
all 1 can say of MisS Younger ; but since you are so 
good to have an opinion of my sincerity, you may 
be assured of the veracity of these facts. 

I cannot give you any more particulars of myself 
or friends ; nor do I think there wants any araend- 

* Miss. Bignall. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 145 

ment in Miss Oldfield's life, only this, that she was 
brought on the stage by the interest of Sir John Van- 
brugb, who was her great friend in the business of 
the house. There is an error about the child ; he 
was no more than three years old When his father 
died. Your very humble servant, 

M. SAUNDERS. 

In the character of the Country Wife, Miss Big- 
nail, through the whole action, made a very pretty 
figure, and exactly entered into the nature of the part. 
She had a certain grace in her rusticity, which gave 
us hopes of seeing her a very skilful player, and in 
some parte supply our loss of Miss Verbruggen.* 

Miss Christiana Hovton. 

This gentlewoman is descended from a very good 
family in Wiltshire ; she was born in the year 1696. 
When but a child she was bent upon trying the fate 
of a dramatic life, and accordingly engaged herself 
with Mr. Booker, master of a strolling company of 
players. Mr. Booth seeing her act the part of Cupid, 
in a droll called Cupid and Psyche, in Southwark 
Fair, 1714, and being pleased with her performance, 
he brought her on Drury Lane Theatre the year af- 
ter. The first part she appeared in was Melinda, 
in the Recruiting Officer. She remained on that 
stage till it was tortured with several revolutions, 
and was at last persuaded to leave it for Covent 

* See the Tatler No. 3. 
19 



14)6 THE HISTORY Or 

Garden Theatre, in the year 1734, where she new 
remains. 

She played the most considerable parts in several 
plays with success, eveu when Miss Oidfield and 
Miss Porter were in their highest perfection ; par- 
ticularly the part of Lady Bruinpton in the Funeral, 
for which she received the highest compliments from 
Sir Richard Steele, the author; and Mr. Booth of- 
ten declared that no one was so capable of playing 
Miss Oldfield's parts, after her decease, as Miss 
Horton. Mr. Wilks was of the same opinion, and 
proved it, by choosing her to play with him in sev- 
eral Comedies, where she appeared in Miss Old- 
field's characters. The part of Millamant, in The 
Way of the World, was one of the foremost ; and my 
intimacy with Mr. Wilks at that time, gave me an 
opportunity to be assured, that she acquitted herself 
in this character to the satisfaction of that celebrated 
actor, as well as to the delight of the audience. 

That she remains now in the full possession of 
Miss Oldfield's parts, in Comedy, without a rival, is 
obvious to every one who frequents the Theatre ; and 
is almost the only copy that can remind us of the ex- 
cellent original ; so much is the business of acting re- 
duced from its former glory. I shall only add one 
observation more, which is, that in the meridian of 
life she retains her beauty, even without the entire 
loss of her bloom ; and is by far the best figure on 
either stage. 



THE ENGLISH STAGE. 147 

Miss Catharine Raftor. 

This gentlewoman was born in London, in the year 
1711. She is the daughter of William Raftor, son 
of James Raftor, Esq. of the city of Kilkenny, in the 
kingdom of Ireland ; a gentleman of a very ancient 
Roman Catholic family, and possessed of a consid- 
erable estate, which at the late revolution, was for- 
feited to the crown, by his sons being all engaged in 
the service of King James, after the battle of the 
Boyne, her father attended his Majesty to France, 
and obtained a Captain's commission in the French 
King's service ; but growing weary of a military life, 
came to London, obtained a pardon of King William, 
and afterwards married Miss Elizabeth Daniel, 
daughter of Edward Daniel, an eminent Leather- 
seller on Fish Street Hill, with whom he had a hand- 
some fortune. He was bred to the Law ; but, being 
of the Romish persuasion, practiced under such re- 
strictions as prevented his doing any thing more for 
his family, which was very large, than bestowing a 
genteel education on them. 

Miss Raftor came on the stage in the year 1738. 
and married Mr. George Clive, an Attorney at Law, * 
in 1732. 

This excellent actress was first distinguished in 
the character of Dorinda, in the Tempest. But so 
extensive has been her genius in the Drama, that it 
may be said, without the least tincture of flattery, no . 
woman, at her age, ever shone in so great a variety 
of characters, the truth of which assertion, the nu- 



148 THE HISTORY OF 

merous list of her parts, would, if recited, demon- 
strate. 

Conclusion. 

We shall close these our Dramatic Memoirs with 
the sentiments of Mr. Secretary Addison, in relation 
to Theatrical entertainments. 

"I cannot, (says he) be of the same opinion with 
the Reformers of Manners, in their severity towards 
plays ; but must allow, that a good play, acted be- 
fore a well bred audience, must raise very proper in- 
citements to good behaviour, and be the most quick 
and most prevailing method of giving young people 
a turn of sense and breeding. 

" When the character, drawn by a jndicious Poet, 
is presented by the person, the manner, the look and 
the motion of an accomplished player, what may not 
be brought to pass by seeing generous things per- 
formed before our eyes ? The stage is the best mir- 
ror of human life ; let me therefore recommend the 
apt use of a Theatre as the most agreeable and easy 
method of making a polite and moral gentry, which 
would end in rendering the rest of the people regu- 
lar in their behaviour, and ambitious of laudable un- 
dertakings." 



' 



MEMOIRS 



OF 



MISS ANNE OLDFIELD 



NOTE BY THE PUBLISHER. 

IJST these memoirs, to avoid imputation from the 
chaste ear of delicacy, it is necessary to remark ; that 
in the cera when many of the female class first flour- 
ished in the dramatic sphere, the world was not so 
scrupulously jealous of, nor sought for that refine- 
ment of virtue, which it will be allowed is a guardian 
monitor the present time to many ladies on the Amer- 
ican Stage. 

At the period when most of these memoirs take 
their date ; ladies on the Stage appearing to every 
advantage, from grace of manner, beauty of person, 
melody of voice, costume, §*c. attracted the attention 
of the other sex, whose titles, power and wealth, 
where forcible incentives ; allurements, which too 
of ten predominate among all classes, among all ranks, 
grades, denominations and sex. From these consid- 
erations where will be wanting the philanthropic 
breast, when the charitable commiseration for errors, 
to which all thus situated, might be exposed, but 
which all have not wisely surmounted. Still there 
are examples of virtue set forth in the foregoing his- 
tory, which will bear competition icith instances of 
female honor (under similar circumstances J equal to 
that we have read of in any history. 






MEMOIRS 

OF THE LIFE OF 

MISS ANNE OLDFIELD. 



THE loss which the polite part of the town has 
sustained, in the death of Miss Oldfield, must be al- 
lowed to be irreparable ; because, in Comedy, as she 
never had, so she has not left her equal. / 

Miss Anne Oldfield was born in Pall-Mail, in the 
year 1683. Her grandfather was a Vintner, but on 
her mother's side she was well descended. Her 
father rode in the Guards, and I have heard had a 
Commission under King James before he died. By 
his free way of living, he not only run out his in- 
come, but likewise spent a very pretty paternal es- 
tate. His daughter was put to Mrs. Wotton, a 
sempstress in King-street Westminster, but her gen- 
ius for the stage was predominant, as appeared by 
her continual reading and repeating parts of plays. 
Mrs. Oldfield being left in strait circumstances, she 
and her daughter lived for some time with her sister 
Mrs. Voss, who kept the Mitre tavern in St. James' 
market. She married a second husband, one Wood. 



4i MEMOIRS OF THE 

Her daughter Miss Anne Oldfield, was introduced 
to Mr. Christopher Rich, by the late Sir John Van- 
brugh, in the year 1699. About which time Miss 
Cross having made an excursion to France, with a 
certain Baronet, Miss Oldfield's first appearance on 
the stage was in a part of her's, Candiope, in Sec- 
ret Love ; or, the Maiden Queen ; a tragi-comedy, 
written by Mr. Dryden. 

Her second appearance was in a more capital part, 
Alinda, in the Pilgrim of Beaumont and Fletcher, 
in which Sir John Vanbrugh made some alterations, 
and Mr. Dryden wrote a Masque, to render the re- 
vival of this play more agreeable to the town, to- 
gether with a new Prologue and Epilogue. The 
Pilgrim was indeed revived for the benefit of Mr. 
Dryden, in the year 1700, but he dying on the third 
night of its representation, his son attended the run 
of it, and the advantages accrued to his family. A- 
bout three years after, upon the decease of that emi- 
nent actress Miss Verbruggen, who died in child- 
bed, Miss Oldfield succeeded her in the part of Lady 
Lurewell, in the Constant Couple ; or, A Trip to 
the Jubilee, written by Mr. Farquhar, which run 
fifty-two nights. But the part that rendered 
Miss Oldfield' s excellence chiefly known to the 
town, was that of Lady Betty Modish, in the Care- 
less Husband, a comedy, written by Mr. Cibber, in 
the year 1704. In this character it was that those 
two qualities, before observed by Mr. Cibber, of the 
genteel and the elegant, shone out in Miss Oldfield 
to their greatest degree of perfection ; and the char • 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 

acter was so admirably suited to the natural and a- 
greeable manner of conversation peculiar to Miss 
Oldfield, that almost every sentence, in the part, may 
with justice be said to have been heard from her own 
mouth before she pronounced it on the stage. In 
short, it was not the part of Lady Betty Modish, rep- 
resented by Miss Oldfield ; but it was the real Miss 
Oldfield who appeared in the character of Lady Bet- 
ty Modish. 

The same year, the Royal Company of Comedi- 
ans went down to Bath, where, among several plays 
acted by them during the season, Miss Campion, 
not only by her action, but her singing and dancing, 
had so far captivated the most noble William Duke 
of Devonshire, father of the late Duke, that he took 
her off the Stage. Of this amour farther mention 
will be hereafter made; because it is intended that 
these memoirs shall not only, with the utmost fideli- 
ty, consist of a recital of the peculiar excellencies of 
Miss Oldfield, but likewise contain a short digres- 
sionary history of the fate and fortunes of the most 
considerable actresses during the same period of 
time ; an attempt which I hope will not be less use- 
ful than entertaining to every reader. 

It is well known, that about this time, a strict alli- 
ance of friendship had commenced between Arthur 
Maynwaring, Esq. and Miss Oldfield. Mr. Old- 
mixon, who wrote the life of Mr. Maynwaring, as- 
sures the public, " That each of them loved with a 
passion, that could hardly have been stronger, had it 
SO 



6 MEMOIRS OF THE 

been both hers and his first love." * It was doubt- 
less owing, in a great measure, to his instructions, 
that Miss Oldfield became so admirable a player, for 
as nobody understood the action of the stage better 
than himself, so nobody took greater pleasure than 
he to see her excel in it. He wrote several Prologues 
and Epilogues for her, and would always hear her 
rehearse them in private before she spoke them in 
public. I shall insert part of one,f to which in the 
speaking she gave an inimitable turn of humor 5 be- 
ing an agreeable display of the manner how the la- 
dies would govern under a. feminine monarchy. 

Could wc a.. Parliament of women call, 
We'd vote such statutes as would tame ye all; 
First, we'd resolve, that all those marry'd fellows, 
Should banishment endure, who durst he jealous: 
For though that curst disease proceeds from love's soft 
passion, 



Next, that those dull, uncomfortable wights, 
Who sleep all morning, and who sot 0' nights, 
Should find, when they reel home with surfeits cloy'd, 
Their tender ivives with better friends employ'd. 

Lastly, the man who breaks the marriage vow, 
(If any such, in this good house you know) 
For the first time, should suffer a divorce; 

Adieu those tempting words for better and for worse: 

The ladies should be free again to wed, 
And the false men be naturally dead. 

* See Mr. Maynwaring's Life, Svo. p. 43, &c. 
t The Epilogue to the Wife's Relief ; or, The Husbandh 
(Jure. A comedy written by Mr. Charles Johnson. 



/ 

LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. ¥ 

But hold ! what makes vie impotently rant ? 

The icill we have but ! the power we want : 

And you, vile husbands, when these threats you hear, 

Will only grow worse tyrants than you were. 

Yet have a care — for though we cannot make 

Laws for mankind, we can their orders break. 

The war, 'tis said is drawing to an end ; 

And not one woman then can want a. friend. 

The brave will all to this dear town repair, 

And tbey were always guardians of the fair ; 

By faithful service to their country done, 

Our sex's favor they have fairly won ; 

And may they still have this propitious doom, 

Conquest abroad, and just returns at home. 

These are our wishes, and if any here 

The glorious character of soldier bear, 

I hope their favor to this Play they'll show, 

And pay our Poet what to us they owe. 

Mr. Maynwaring's friends, some of whom were 
of the highest rank, of both sexes often blamed him, 
nay, have had such quarrels with him concerning 
this affair, that even Miss Oldfield herself has fre- 
quently represented to him, that it was for his honor 
and interest to break off their alliance, which open 
frankness, on her side, did as he has often confessed, 
engage him to her the more firmly, and all his friends 
at last, gave over importuning him to leave her. 
They saw, by her most engaging manner, that she 
daily, and hourly, more and more entangled him in 
Cupid's nets, and it must be allowed that Mr. Mayn- 
waring is not the only wise man who has fallen a 
victim to Venus. He really sustained a greater 



8 MEMOIRS OF THE 

weight of the public affairs, than some whose posts 
more immediately load them with the burthen. His 
very great intimacy and friendship with my Lord 
Godolphin and the Duke of Marlborough, who were 
then at the head of the ministry, could not but ne- 
cessarily involve him in political researches, and it 
was to unbend his mind that he took delight to pass 
some hours with a woman, whose conversation was 
both soft and pleasant, and exactly agreeable to his 
own. It is not to be supposed that two persons un- 
der such an affectionate alliance, could meet without 
consummation ; and all the quarter that is desired 
for Mr. Maynwaring's reputation in this transaction 
of his life, is, that none but the innocent would con- 
demn him. For what Mr. Fenton has observed of 
the primitive state, may be justly applied to the sat- 
isfaction they enjoyed in each other. 

Pure from deceit, devoid of fear and strife, 
While love was all the pensive care of life. 

It cannot be denied, but this amour was very ex- 
pensive to Mr. Maynwaring, though it was not the 
only erroneous instance of his economy. No man 
could have a greater contempt for money, or abhor- 
red what was mean and sordid more than he did : 
And it was wholly owing to his generosity and neg- 
ligence of his own affairs, that after he had so profit- 
able a post, as Auditor of the Imprest conferred on 
him, yet he made no addition to his fortune. When he 
sold his estate of Ightfield in Shropshire, to my lord 
Kilmurry, there was not, when the Mortgages were 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 9 

paid off, above four thousand pounds left to be divid- 
ed between him and his sister. The management 
of his domestic affairs he gave entirely up to his sis- 
ter and servants ; and those that knew what was the 
conduct of his family at Whitehall, never thought 
that he would be the richer for his post. His com- 
pany was so much the delight of the great, the 
fair and the gay, that he was very little at home. 
However, we must leave him for a while in the busi- 
ness of his post ; made happy, at certain intervals, 
by Miss Oldfield, in whose conversation all his 
political fatigues were most agreeably alleviated. 

About this time, the Englisb Stage met with as 
much opposition as the State. Nothing would go 
down but Italian Operas, and indeed Mr. Maynwar- 
ing, being a lover of Music, and a fine performer 
himself, gave into this polite taste, and wrote the 
following Prologue to Camilla. 

While marlial troops, with more than martial rage, 
Fur Austria these, for Bourbon those engage ; 
Cover with blood th' unhappy Latian plain?, 
Insult their Shepherds, and oppress their swains ; 
Camilla, frighten'd from her native seat, 
Hither is driv'n to beg a false retreat. 

may the exil'd nymph a refuge find ! 
Such as may ease the labours of her mind : 
Hear her, ye fair, in tuneful notes complain, 
Pity her anguish and remove her pain ; 
To you her vindication does belong, 
To you the mourner has sddress'd her song. 
Let her your hearts with just compassion move, 
By Music soften'd and endear'd by love ; 



10 MEMOIRS OF THE 

So may your warrior Lords successful fight. 
May honour crown the day and love the night. 
May conquest still attend their generous arras. 
Till their swords grow as fatal your charms. 

But let it here be observed, that though Mr. 
Maynwaring's love of music made him give some, 
encouragement to the Italian Operas ; yet he was a 
fast friend and vigorously pushed all his interest, 
both for promoting and improving the entertainment 
of the English Theatre, being truly sensible of this 
remark, 

" While Nicolinp like a Tyrant reigns, 
Nature's neglected, and the Stage in chains."* 

We must now return to Miss Oldfield, rising every 
season in reputation, from her inimitable perform- 
ance, first acquired under the character of Lady Bet- 
ty Modish, and in which she shone more, than in all 
the parts wherein she had hitherto appeared. 

The author of the Careless Husband, thus impar- 
tially states the case, to his most noble patron the 
Duke of Argyll : " The best critics having long and 
justly complained, that the coarsness of most charac- 
ters in our late Comedies have been unfit entertain- 
ments for people of quality, especially the ladies : 
And therefore, says he, I was long in hopes that 
sonie able pen, whose expectation did not hang upon 
the profits of success, would generously attempt to 
reform the town into a better taste than the world 

* Epilogue to the Careless Husband. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 11 

generally allows them'; bat nothing of that kind hav- 
ing lately appeared, that would give an opportunity 
©f being wise at another's expence, I found it impos- 
sible any longer to resist the secret temptation of my 
vanity, and so even struck the first blow myself: And 
the event has now convinced me, that whoever sticks 
close to nature, cannot easily write above the under- 
standing of the Galleries, though at the same time he 
may possibly deserve applause of the Boxes" 

This Play, before its trial on the Stage, was ex- 
amined by several people of quality, who came into 
the Duke of Argyll's opinion of its being a just, a 
proper, and diverting attempt in Comedy ; but few of 
them carried the compliment beyond their private 
approbation : " For, says Mr. Cibber, when I was 
wishing for a little farther hope, they stopt short of 
your Grace's penetration, and only wished me what 
they seemed to fear, and you assured me of, a gener- 
al success. And, if the dialogue of this Comedy 
flows with a more easy turn of thought and spirit, 
than what I have usually produced ; I shall not yet 
blame some people for saying it is not my own, un- 
less they know at the same time I owe most of it to 
the many stolen observations I have made from your 
Grace's manner of conversing." 

I should not have dwelt so long on this Play, were 
it not the period from whence we may date the birth 
of Miss Oldfield as an actress. And, to demonstrate 
how exactly the Dramatical pencil has delineated 
her real character, under the imaginary one of Lady 
Betty Modish, I shall, both for the reader's enter- 



13 MEMOIRS OF THE 

taiuuient and information, refer him to the first scene 
of the second Act of the Play, between Lady Modish 
and Lady Easy ; 'wherein the descriptions given of 
the allurements of dress, and other captivating 
charms, of wit, raillery and conversation, for which 
Miss Oldfield was so peculiarly remarkable, make it 
appear self-evident, that none but she could have sat 
for the picture. 

It must here be noted, that the Summer before the 
appearance of the Careless Husband on the Stage, 
Mr. Maynwaring and Miss Oldfield spent the recess 
of a whole long vacation at Windsor, the scene of 
that Comedy, where they lodged in the Castle at the 
house of Mr. John Sewell, Treasurer and Chapter- 
Clerk to the Dean and College. The application of 
this hint, I submit to the reader's judgment, when 
he has considered the interview between the two la- 
dies abovementioned. 

In the chit-chat of Lady Betty Modish, may be 
found the raillery of Miss Oldfield. It was her wit 
that made her company always acceptable to persons 
of the highest rank ; and as to her outward appear- 
ance, it was beautiful without artifice, and her ad- 
dress engaging without affectation. 

We must now return to Mr. Maynwaring, who 
being made happy by Miss Oldfield with the birth 
of a son, it was such a rivet to Cupid's chains, as 
bound him much faster to his Venus. However, 
Mr. Maynwaring made a serious application of this 
natural incident ; and set a firm resolution to himself 
of regulating his future conduct. He reduced all his 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. lp 

exyeiices to stated allowances, and laid by a consid- 
erable part of the income of bis Auditorship, saying, 
He had been such a fool as to despise money tiU then, 
but now he would do as other men did, and endeavor to 
grow rich. But this resolution was formed too late ; 
for his company was so much the delight of the great, 
the fair and the gay, that he was very little at home. 
He drank freely, and as his wines were generally 
Champagne and Burgundy, it was to their corrosive 
qualities that he imputed the ill state of health he 
was fallen into ; and has often spoken with concern, 
of the misfortune it had been to him, that people 
thought his conversation so agreeable, as to expose 
him to intemperance. However, Miss Oldfield by 
her care, and tender affection for him, prolonged his 
life some years ; and her generosity has been so great, 
towards his son, that she has, by her last Will and 
Testament, bequeathed him a legacy much more 
than double the estate his father left, besides other 
provisions made for him.* 

I shall now resume my dramatical narrations. 

Upon Miss Cross's excursion to Paris, as before 
mentioned, I remember a jocose distich in an Epi- 
logue spoken by Jo. Haines, on that occasion. 

We're ruin'd to a hair, not worth one souse, 
We've lost the prettiest trinket of our house. 

Miss Cross, last belonged to the Theatre in Lin- 
eolu's-Inn-Fields, and has been dead some years. 
Let us next view Miss Oldfield in the Tragic 

* See IS T o. I. and II. of the Appendix. 
21 



14s tfEMOIHS OF THE 

scene. In Phaedra and Hippolitus, she appeared ia 
company suitable to her own. The Dramatis Per- 
sonse of that excellent play, consisted but of four 
men and two women, viz. Mr. Betterton, Mr. Booth, 
Mr. Keene, Mr. Corey ; Miss Barry, and Miss Old- 
field. 

Phcedra, says Mr. Oldisworth,* is a consummate 
Tragedy ; and the success of it was as great, as the 
most sanguine expectations of the authors friends 
could promise, or foresee. The number of nights, 
and the common method of filling the house, are not 
always the surest marks of judging what encourage- 
ment a play meets with ; but the generosity of all the 
persons of a refined taste about town was remarkable 
on this occasion ; and it must not be forgotten how 
zealously Mr. Addison espoused its interest, with all 
the elegant judgment and diffusive good nature, for 
which that accomplished gentleman was so justly val- 
ued by mankind. But as to Phcedra, she has certain- 
ly made a finer figure under Mr. Smith's conduct, 
upon the English Stage, than either at Rome or 
Athens ; and if she excels the Greek and Latin Phse. 
dra, I need not be put to the trouble of saying she 
surpasses the French one^ though embellished with 
whatever regular beauties, and moving softness, Ra- 
cine himself could give her. 

The Prologue to this Tragedy was written by Mr. 
Addison, and spoken by Mr. Wilks. The fine 
turn of raillery it contains against the Italian Thea- 
tre, will, I think, justify my transcribing it in thisr 
place in defence of the English one. 

* See his character of the author, prefixed to his works, p. xiv. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 15 

Long has a race of heroes fill'd the stage, 
That rant by note, and thro' the gamut rage % 
In songs and airs express their martial fire, 
Combat in trills, and in a feuge expire ; 
While lull'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit, 
Calm and serene you indolently sit ; 
And from the dull fatigue of thinking free, 
Hear the facetious fiddles repartee : 
Our home-spun authors must forsake the field, 
And Shakespeare to the soft Scarlatti* yield. 

To your new taste the Poet of this day 
Was by a friend advis'd to form his play ; 
Had Valentini, musically coy, 

Shunn'd Phsedra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd joy i 
It had not mov'd your wonder to have seen 
An* Eunuch fly from an enamour'd queen : 
How would it please, should she in English speak, 
And could Hippolitus reply in Greek ? 
But he, a stranger to your modish way, 
By your old rules must stand or fall to-day, 
And hopes that you, will foreign taste command, 
To bear for once with what you understand, 

In the representation of the play itself, who could 
sit unmoved at a recital of the passions of These- 
us's Queen, or the Princess Ismena, for their Hip- 
politus, when a Barry and an Oldfield were the 
pleaders ? 

And who was not pierced to the heart when Isme- 
na pronounced these lines ? 

Let them be cruel that delight in mischief; 
I'm of a softer mould; poor Phsedra's sorrows 
Pierce thro* my yielding heart and wound my soul. 



16 MEMOIRS OF THE 

For could you think that open gen'rous youth 
Could with feign'd love deceive a jealous woman ? 
Could he so soon grow artful in dissembling ? 
Ah ! without doubt his thoughts inspir'd his tongue, 
And all his soul receiv'd a real love. 
Perhaps new graces darted from her eyes, 
Perhaps soft pity charm'd his yielding soul, 
Perhaps her love, perhaps her kingdom charm'd him ! 
Perhaps — alas ! how many things might charm him ! 

The care of Ismena, to preserve Hippolitus, and 
the resolution she forms of sharing his fate, is thus 
inimy;ably expressed : 

O ! haste away, my Lord, I go, I fly 

Thro' all the dangers of the boist'rous deep. 

When the wind whistles thro' the crackling masts; 

When thro' the yawning ship the foaming sea 

Rolls bubbling in ; then, then Pll clasp thee fast, 

And in transporting love forget my fear; 

O ! I will wander thro* the Scythian gloom, 

O'er ice and hills of everlasting snow : 

There when the horrid darkness shall enclose us, 

When the bleak wind shall chill my shiv'ring limbs, 

Thou shalt alone supply the distant sun, 

And cheer my gazing eyes, and warm my heart.. 

Alas ! my tender soul would shrink at death, 
Shake with its fears, and sink beneath its pains, 
In any cause but this — but now I'm steel'd, 
And the near danger lessens to my sight. 
Now, if I live, 'tis only for Hippolitus, 
And with an equal joy I'll die to save him. 
Yes, for his sake I'll go a willing shade, 
And wait his coming in th* Elysian fields, 
And there inquire of each descending ghost, 
Of my lov'd hero's welfare, life and honor. 
Add to the Elysian joys, and make that heav'u more happy. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 1? 

The quotations I have here made, are to show th« 
admirable diction of this play, and to justify Mr. Ad- 
dison's censure, in the Tatler, of the want of taste in 
the audience, for not encouraging this excellent trag- 
edy. 

However, Miss Oldfield dismissed them with the 
following elegant Epilogue written by Mr. Prior. 

Ladies, to-night your pity I implore 
For one who never troubled you before : 
An Oxford man, extremely read in Greek, 
"Who from Eu — ripides makes Phaedra speak, 
And comes to town to let us moderns know, 
How women lov'd two thousand years ago. 
If that be all, said I, e'en burn your play, 
I -gad we know all that as well as they : 
Show us the youthful handsome charioteer, 
Firm in his seat, and running his career ; 
Our souls wou'd kindle with as gen'rous flames, 
As e'er inspir'd the ancient Grecian dames : 
Ev'ry Ismena wou'd resign her breast, 
And ev'ry dear Hippolitus be blest. 

Now of the bustle you have seen to-day, 
And Phaedra's morals in this scholar's play ; 
Something at last, injustice should be said, 

But this Hippolitus so fills one's head. 

Well ! Phaedra liv'd as chastely as she cou'd, 

For she was father Jove's own flesh and blood ; 

Her aukward love, indeed, was oddly sated, 

She and her Poly were too near related ; 

And yet that scruple had been laid aside, 

If honest Theseus had but fairly dy'd ; 

But when he came, what needed he to know, 

But that all matters stood in statu quo ? 

There was no harm, you see ; or grant there were, 



18 MEMOIRS OF THE 

She might want conduct, but he wanted car«. >' j 

'Twas in a husband little less than rude, 

Upon his wife's retirement to intrude : 

He shou'd have sent a night or two before, 

That he wou'd come exact at such an hour; 

Then he had turn'd all Tragedy to jest, 

Found ev'ry thing contribute to his rest ; 

The picquet friend dismiss'd, the coast all clear, 

And spouse alone, impatient for her dear. 

But if these gay reflections come too late 
To keep the guilty Phsedra from her fate ; 
If your more serious judgment must condemn 
The dire effects of her unhappy flame : 
Yet, ye chaste matrons, and ye tender fair, 
Let love and innocence engage your care. 
My spotless flames to your protection take, 
And spare poor Phsedra for Ismena's sake.. 

Miss Oldfield gained an universal applause by 
playing Ismena, in this Tragedy. The character 
showed her in a light of perfection hardly to be ex- 
pressed ; and indeed every part she acted was a de- 
monstration of her daily improvement. 

Some differences arising between Mr. Rich and 
his company, they joined in with the company at the 
Hay Market, acting under the licence of Vanburgh 
and Congreve, where Miss Barry and Miss Brace- 
girdle, both famous in their way, had been for some 
time. But Miss Oldfield's voice, figure and manner 
of playing soon made her shine out, even here, the 
brightest star. Upon the preference being given to 
her in the benefit plays, and other disputes fomented 
among the managers, Miss Barry and Miss Brace- 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD., 19 

girdle entirely quitted the business, and left Miss 
Oldfield sole Empress of the stage. 

The season following, the revolters returning to 
Drury Lane, made up one complete company 5 and 
in the spring came on Mr. Phillips's Tragedy, The 
Distrest Mother. Miss Rogers, an actress, who in 
her turn had made a considerable figure on the stage, 
was designed the part of Andromache, Hector's wid- 
ow, &c. that is, the Distrest Mother. But the au- 
thor, as well as his friends, were soon convinced that 
Miss Oldfield was infinitely the more accomplished 
person for so capital a part. Upon its being given 
to her, Miss Rogers raised a posse of profligates, 
fond of tumult and riot, who made such a commotion 
in the house, that the court hearing of it, sent four of 
the Royal Messengers, and a strong guard, to sup- 
press all disorders. This being effected, the play 
was brought upon the stage and crowned with de- 
served success. 

As Mr. Smith had introduced a Greek Tragedy 
upon our Theatre, Mr. Phillips was willing to try 
what reception would be given to a French one. 
Phozdra and Hippolitus, is by much the superior per- 
formance ; but the Distrest Mother, by dramati- 
cal management, to which Mr. Smith was an utter 
stranger, greatly exceeded it in the run ; and to do 
the English author justice, it is a good modern play. 
I shall here let him speak for himself. 

*" This Tragedy is formed upon an original which 
passes for the most finished piece in this kind of 

*See his Dedication to the Duchess of Montague. 



20 MEMOIRS OF THE 

writing, that has ever been produced in the French 
language. * It is written in a stile very different 
from what has been usually practiced, among us, in 
Poems of this nature. 

" If I have been able to keep up the beauties of 
Monsieur Racine in my attempt, and to do him no 
prejudice in the liberties I have taken frequently to 
vary from so great a poet, I shall have no reason to 
be dissatisfied with the labour it has cost me to bring 
the completest of his works upon the English Stage." 

However, I cannot think it improper, in this place, 
to remark, that as full as Mr. Phillips is of his eulo- 
giums on Monsieur Racine, yet at the same time 
Euripides is acknowledged to be the original author. 
So that the Distrest Mother has two passports for 
her safe arrival in Great Britain. 

The Prologue to this play was written by Sir 
Richard Steele, and spoken by Mr. Wilks. 

Since fancy of itself is loose and vain, 
The wise by rules that airy pow'r restrain : 
They think those writers mad, who at their ease 
Convey this house and audience where they please ; 
Who nature's stated distances confound, 
And make this spot all soils the sun goes round : 
'Tis nothing, when a fancy'd scene's iii view, 
To skip from Covent Garden to Peru. 

But Shakespeare's self transgressed, and shall each elf, 
Each pigmy genius quote, great Shakespeare's self .' 
What critiek dares prescribe what's just and fit ?■ 
Or mark out limits for such boundless wit ? 

* See his Preface* 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. %i 

Shake.ipe.ire could travel Ihro' earth, sea, and air, 
And paint out all the powers and wonders there ; 
In barren deserts he makes nature smile, 
And give us feasts in his enchanted isle. 

Our author does his feeble force confess, 
Nor dares pretend such merit to transgress ; 
Does not such shining gifts of genius share, 
And therefore makes propriety his care. 
Not only rules of time and place preserves j 
Your treat with study'd decency he serves ; 
But strives to keep his characters entire, 
With French correctness and with British fire. 

This piece, presented in a foreign tongue, 
When France was glorious, and her Monarch young, 
A hundred times a crowded audience drew : 
A hundred times repeated, still 'twas new. 

Pyrrhus provok'd, to no wild rants betray'd, 
Resents his generous love so ill repaid ; 
Does like a man resent, a Prince upbraid. 
His sentiments disclose a Royal mind, 
Nor is he known a King from guards behind. 

InjurM Hermione demands relief; 
But not from heavy narratives of grief: 
In conscious Majesty here pride is shown ; 
Born to avenge her wrong, but not bemoan. 

Andromache If in our author's lines, 

As in th» great original she shines, 

Nothing but from barbarity she fears, 

Attend with silence ; you'll applaud with tears. 

Having before observed, that Phaedra and Andro* 
mache are, both the children of Euripides ; I shall 
here observe, that the kind entertainment they met 

32 



22 MEMOIRS OF THE 

with on the English Stage, was chiefly owing to 
Miss Barry and Miss Oldfield ; whose manner of 
speaking the very humorous Epilogue, written by 
Mr. Budgell, greatly contributed to the run of the 
last Play ; and which, whenever revived, the audi- 
ence always have insisted on. 

I hope you'll own, that with becoming art 
I've play'd my game, and topp'd the widow's part. 
My spouse, poor man ! could not live out the Play, 
But dy'd commodiously on wedding-day : 
While I, his relict, made at one bold fling 
Myself a Princess, and young 'Sty a King. 

You ladies, who protract a lover's pain, 
And hear your servants sigh whole years in vain 
Which of you all would not on marriage venture, 
Might she so soon upon her jointure enter ? 

'Twas a strange 'scape ! had Pyrrhus liv'd till now, 

I had been finely hamper'd in my vow. 

To die by one's own hand, and fly the charms, 

Of love and life in a young monarch's arras, 

'Twere an hard fate — ere I had undergone it, 

I might have took one night — to think upon it. 

But why, you'll say, was all this grief exprest 
For a first husband, laid long since at rest ? 
Why so much coldness to my kind protector ? 

Ah ladies ! had you known the good man Hector I 

Homer will tell you (or I'm misinform'd) 
That, when enrag'd the Grecian camp he storm'd, 
To break the ten-fold barriers of the gate, 
He threw a stone of such prodigious weight, 
As no two men could lift, not even those, 
Who in that age of thundering mortals rose : 
— It would have sprain'd a dozen modern beans. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 23 

At length, however, I laid my weeds aside. 
And sunk the widow in the well-dress'd bride ; 
In you it still remains to grace the play, 
And bless with joy my coronation-day : 
Take then, ye circles of the brave and fair, 
The fatherless aad widow to your care* 

I must now relate the melancholy parting of two 
sincere friends. Notwithstanding Miss Oldfield's 
great care and concern for Mr. Maynwaring's wel- 
fare, his negligence of himself brought upon him a 
violent relapse of his former indisposition, which 
daily increased ; insomuch that his friends begau to 
despair of his recovery. 

Such was the inveteracy of party malice at this 
time, that, because Mr. Maynwaring was chiefly 
concerned in writing the Medley, the Examiner, in 
one of his papers, upbraided him, even with his sick- 
ly constitution, which however was not owing to any 
debaucheries, as he had maliciously represented. 

Mr. Maynwaring had lodgings atHampstead, and 
rode out every day, hoping for some benefit by that 
most healthful exercise. But, upon paying a visit to 
her Grace the Duchess of Marlborough, at her seat 
near St. Albans, he caught so violent a cold by walk- 
ing too late in the gardens, and it increased upon him 
so fast, that it was his own opinion, it would finish 
what his former illness had began. His physicians, 
Sir Samuel Garth and Sir Richard Blackmore, ex- 
pressed very small hopes of his recovery; which 
gave the more cause of apprehension to his friends, 
for both those gentlemen were among the first of that 
n»mbcr, and as much concerned in friendship as 



«* MEMOIRS OF THE 

practice, to save him if possible. His relations would 
have Dr. Kadcliff consulted, and the late Earl of 
Oxford happening to see the Doctor before he had 
been with Mr. Maynwaring, spoke thus to him — 
Pray Doctor take care of that gentleman, one of the 
most valuable lives in England. Indeed Mr. Mayn- 
waring was at last so much obliged by that minis- 
ter's good offices and civilities, that he declared, if 
he should recover, he would never more draw his 
pen against him* But it was out of the power of 
physic to help him, his inward decay was so great. 
He was thrown into such a languishing condition, that 
though his distemper was not then thought to be a 
consumption, yet it had all the symptoms and effects 
produced by one. He was visited, in this his last 
sickness, by all the great people of both sexes, who 
had the happiness of his acquaintance, though he was 
able to see but few of them. And it is to his glory, 
that the greatest lady in England* wept often by his 
bed-side, which tears he mutually returned, being 
sensible how much he owed to such an illustrious 
mourner, when he was sensible of little or nothing 
else. He had not words to express the transport he 
felt, when he was almost even in the agony, to see 
himself so far in the good graces of a lady of such 
high rank and merit, as that his danger should strike 
her dumb, and leave it to her eyes to express the 
sorrows of her heart. It is supposed he would fain 
have endeavoured to have broke through the excess 
of his grief, and formed some utterance for it ; but his 

* Queen Anne of England. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIFXD. 25 

sister remained in the room. This emotion of Iris 
was the more extraordinary, on aceount of a slight 
misunderstanding at that time, between him and this 
great lady. He had given her some cause of disgust, 
but was not conscious to himself in what, and it is 
thought, that his perplexity about it contributed some- 
what to the increase of his distemper. He did all in 
his power to express his concern for the unknown of- 
fence, but he was too near death, and in a few hours 
after she had left him, he expired in the arms of his 
servant, Mr. Thomas Wood, now Treasurer of the 
Theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, on the 12th of Nov. 
1712, in the prime of his age, being but forty-four 
years old. 

After his decease, a most scandalous and false ru- 
mor was spread, chiefly levelled at Miss Oldfield, 
that he died of a venereal malady. But to obviate 
so ungenerous a reflection, his body, by her direc- 
tion, was opened by two surgeons — Mr. Bussiere and 
Mr. Browne ; in the presence of tAVo physicians, 
Dr. Beestou and Br. West ; and of his apothecary 
Mr. Buckeridge. 

These gentlemen, all, declared, that there was not 
the least symptom of any thing venereal ; but i\\zd 
he died of a consumption. He had in his life time, 
heard the whisperings of malicious rumor, charging 
him with such an indisposition ; but he once com- 
plained very pathetically to her, that he was not con- 
scious of any such distemper ; confessing at the same 
time, that, in the reign of king William, he had made 
an unfortunate sally in an amour, which gave him a 



SO MEMOIRS OF THE 

slight taint at Paris, 1698 ; that he was only patcht 
up there, but afterwards perfectly cured at London. 
since which time he never had any such misfortune. 

It is the duty of an historian to speak the truth, as 
far as it comes to his knowledge, and as great a ven- 
eration as I have for Mr. Maynwaring's memory, I 
could not avoid mentioning even this blemish of it, 
in justice, and to clear up the unjust aspersion cast 
on Miss Oldfield. 

It was not long before his death, that he made his 
Will, all which he wrote, with his own hand, and to 
which his apothecary Mr. Buekeridge, and his ser- 
vant Mr. Wood, were witnesses, when it was exe- 
cuted at Miss Oldfield 7 s house in Southampton- street, 
Covent-Grarden. He charged them not to take any 
notice of what they knew ; which however was little 
enough, for he intrusted no body with the secret of 
his having made Miss Oldfield his Executrix, though 
by her behavior to him, he could not in justice do 
otherwise, on his son's account ; nor could any wo- 
man better deserve all that was in his power to give : 
of which truth his son is a living witness. 

Notwithstanding the clamor his will made, after 
his decease ; himself, who best knew what he had 
to leave her, could not imagine such a stir would 
have been made about so small an estate. He was 
far from dying rich, leaving very little more than 
three thousand pounds behind him, which he divided 
equally between his sister, his son's mother, and the 
child, who, in feature and vivacity, was very like his 
father. Often have I heard Mr. Maynwaring bemoan 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIEL.D, $7 

ibe child, and say, ickat will become of the boy ichen 
I am gone. This anxiety proceeded from the little 
he possessed. It is true he had such a noble con- 
tempt of the goods of fortune, that he never took care 
to make one, nor ever resolved to grow rich. 

Had I a talent for panegyric, I could be proud of 
this opportunity to do justice to the memory of a gen- 
tleman, whose name would be immortal, had not his 
modesty been as great as his merit ; had he not eon- 
tented himself with the pleasure of writing, and re- 
signed the glory of it to others. As to the author of 
the Medley, the Examiner was obliged to allow that 
he wrote with a tolerable spirit and in a masterly 
style. A spirit, indeed, which has not many equals, 
and a style worthy the imitation of the greatest mas- 
ters. His learning was without pedantry 5 his wit, 
affectation ; his judgment, without malice ; his friend- 
ship, without interest ; his zeal, without violence ; 
in a word, he was the best subject, the best relation, 
the best master, the best critic, and best political wri- 
ter in Great Britain. 

Shortly after his decease, was published a defence 
of Mr. Maynwaring, in a letter to a friend. It was, 
Mr. Oldmixon asserts,* supposed to be written by 
the right honorable Robert Walpole, Esq. and is not 
unworthy so good a hand for its generosity, spirit, 
and elegance. 

JSik, 

I write to you upon a circumstance, for which it 

* See the Posthumous Works of Mr. Maynwarius published 
fcy him, page 351. 



MEMOIRS OP THE 



is the interest of all mankind to be concerned. The 
public is under the administration of its respective 
ministers and officers, who are obliged by their posts 
to consult the true welfare of it. But incidents, which 
happen alike to all, and from which no man can be 
exempt, fall under every man's care, and are to be 
considered and laid home to the bosom of every man 
breathing, It is incumbent upon each individual 
person, for his own sake, to defend the absent ; but 
much more so to defend the dead, who are to«be ab- 
sent forever. I have reasons for thinking I am cal- 
led to this duty, upon the accidental perusal of a vir- 
ulent libel,* wherein the author after much discourse 
about himself, has (alluding tb a gentleman who late- 
ly departed this life) the following words, " Suppose 
I were also to tell the world, that the most active en- 
emy against this paper, was one who got to be poor 
in the Jacobite cause, and then run over into two 
desperate extremes, and was resolved at once to grow 
rich and honest in the cause of the Whigs. That 
outlived his works a little too long ; till having part- 
ed with religion and morality, he threw away his 
honor in a careless manner after it, together with his 
humanity and natural affection to a kind sister, his 
estate, fortune, and even the vouchers belonging to 
his office. All which were bestowed as monumental 
legacies of Whig honesty, on a celebrated Actress, 
who is too much admired upon the stage, to have any 
enquiry made in her conduct behind the curtain." 
The person here levelled at,(Mr. Mayuwaring was, 

* Sets the Examiner February 9th, 1713—13. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 89 

in his younger days, tinctured with Jacobinism ; an 
error no man ever renounced more heartily, and with 
greater abhorrence of it than he did. He was a man 
of great modesty, and could not exert himself in pub- 
lic places, or in mixed company ; but when, in pro- 
cess of time, his talents grew conspicuous, in spite of 
a bashful nature, he was invited and courted into a 
familiarity with men in the highest power, and of 
the greatest abilities in the kingdom, to whom his 
conversation was both a pleasure and a service. Then 
it was that his words and actions first began to man- 
ifest the principles in which he lived and died. He 
had the highest obligations to that great minister, 
Sidney, Earl of Grodolphin, Lord High Treasurer, 
and enjoyed by his favor, an office for life (Auditor 
of the Imprest.) After the removal of that noble 
Lord from the Treasury, the Examiner thought fit 
to disparage his services, by insinuations, and reflec- 
tions, which the gentleman, of whom we are talking, 
had too much gratitude to hear without indignation. 
This I take to be the provocation which moved the 
Examiner to utter this reproachful language against 
him ; among which he falls into the error of saying, 
he outlived his ivories ; hut ivories of his, which out- 
live him, will let us into the secret of this cruel beha- 
vior. The Medley, was often written by Mr. Mayn- 
waring, this active enemy of the Examiner, in which 
so many gross falsehoods of that writer were detect- 
ed,* that he had recourse to detraction rather than 

* Medley No. M, relating to the act of Indemnity, See also 
Medley No. 443, concerning the SUte rLoans. 
§3 



30 MEMOIRS OF THE 

a just defence of himself, for which he had been cal- 
ed upon by Mr. May b waring in several subsequent 
papers. 

From hence it appears, that the Examiner's treat- 
ment of this gentleman, is as just as it would be in a 
felon to publish a libel against the late Lord Chief 
Justice Holt, for passing sentence upon him to be 
burnt in the cheek. The Examiner has sense e- 
nough, though not grace enough, to know, that to de- 
serve, not to suffer punishment, is truly shameful : 
but none but a man enraged, as in the supposed case 
of the felon, and incapable of remorse and shame, 
could forget all regards to the advantage his adver- 
sary had in the dispute, all tenderness with relation 
to a man's private affairs, so far as to mention the 
particulars of the gentleman's sister, and his passion 
for an actress. This account with his sister, I am 
very sure the Examiner can be no judge of, nor any 
one but the gentleman himself. The offence his pas- 
sion for Miss Oldfield gave, to all who esteemed him, 
is to be lamented, but not to be mentioned with these 
aggravations, especially after his death, and that 
when he who speaks professes himself an enemy. 
But the Examiner takes upon him to be a champion 
for the church, and must not allow such sins to be 
venial ; yet at the same time he should have consid- 
ered, that the other party would recriminate, and 
have reflected, that there are too many of the Exam- 
iner's side, who do not behave themselves as if they 
were under vows of chastity. I know a sly one a- 
mong his great friends, that loves a wench as well as 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELB. 31 

ever did old Rowley, (King Charles II.) Besides 
him, there is another, who finds leisure from his 
weighty affairs to stroll among the stews, or, as some 
will have it, neglects his writing now. and then, to 
toy with a wanton. Bat this dull fellow, the Exam- 
iner, has so little sense of what the impartial world 
thinks of him and his performance, that he gives him- 
self an air of talking by way of good humour. In 
the beginning of the same paper,* the pretty wanton 
is in a laughing vein, and with a very gay heart ral- 
lies us, for a curiosity he supposes we have to know 
the name, profession, trade, quality, complexion, or 
sex, of the author of the Examiner. This author has 
indeed been very much talked of; f a (I) woman, a 
(2) Divine, and (3) two or three gentlemen have been 
suspected ; but no person that had any pretension to 
modesty, piety, or integrity, has been once named on 
this occasion. The folly of the fellow is monstrous, 
to pretend to speak of wenching, considering how the 
world is affronted as to this vice, at present. It is 
certain there never has been greater libertines than 
many who are now in vogue, and I am afraid one or 
the other of them has a design upon the celebrated 
actress abovemlntioned ; else why does he fear to 
make any inquiry into her conduct behind the curtain ? 

* The Examiner of Feb. 9th, 1712—13, abovemeutioned. 

f It is now well known that the persons concerned in carry- 
ing on the Examiner, were, 1. 3/rs. Manley, 2. Dr. Swift, 3. 
Lord Bollingbroke, Mr. Trior, and Mr. Oldisworth. Messrs. 
Pope and Arbuthnot often laid their hands to the same plow, 
and some others of their clan. 



Z% MEMOIRS OF THE 

If the wings do lose her, they will hear it with the 
patience that they have already the defection of some 
others, though of greater quality, and higher obliga- 
tions to be constant to us. But I speak this only 
from general rumour ; for I do not believe she is gone 
off; so far from it, that I am credibly informed she 
has refused great sums, because she insists upon her 
lover's voting on our side. They are, it seems, both 
still firm to their honour, but I would lay on the wo- 
man's side, were it not that all wagers relating to 
politics are forbidden by act of Parliament. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c. 

I think myself obliged to take off the Examiner's 
last aspersion on Mr. Maynwaring ; (not spoken to 
in the foregoing excellent defence) it is this most no- 
torious falsehood, that, He threw aivay-the vouchers 
of his office, whieh I hereby solemnly declare he nev- 
er could do, as never having a voucher in his custo- 
dy, therefore could not lose one. This being a charge 
always committed by the Auditors to their officers ; 
and Mr. Maynwaring's Deputies were known to be 
men of the most scrupulous care imaginable ; he him- 
self being esteemed by all who knew* him, for which 
I particularly appeal to the Commissioners of the 
Customs, to be the most exact of any man in all the 
affairs he undertook. Indeed it was impossible for 
it to be otherwise, there not being in his time, a gen- 
tleman of better sense, more solid judgment, and 
quicker dispatch in business, during the intervals of 
wit and pleasure. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 33 

A true copy of his last will and Testament, here- 
unto annexed, sufficiently justifies the regular and 
honest disposition of that small fortune whereof he 
died possessed. 

Having thus vindicated the memory of this excel- 
lent person, as well as Miss Oldfield's behaviour to 
him, I shall not presume to add any thing farther of 
my own to his character, but conclude with letting the 
reader know that Mr. Maynwaring's corps was in- 
terred in the church of CJhertsey in the county of Sur- 
rey, where his grandfather Sir Arthur Maynwaring 
and his farther Charles Maynwaring, Esq. were like- 
wise buried, and where they had heretofore a plen- 
tiful estate and fine seat. His obsequies were perform- 
ed with great privacy, answerable more to his mod- 
esty than his merit. He never affected pomp living, 
and those who had the direction of his funeral, took 
care to fulfil this his last request, as they had done 
all others in his life time, with the utmost justice and 
honour. 

He was born at Ightfield, in the county of Salop, in 
the year 1668, died 1712, aged forty four. Those who 
are desirous to know more particulars concerning hira, 
and his writings, may consult his life and Posthu- 
mous Works, published by Mr. Oldmixon, in the 
year 1715, &vo. 

The Distrest Mother seemed now to he the case 
of Miss Oldfield, both on and off the stage. For, 
tho' the town-talk was wholy bent upon Mr. Mayn- 
waring's making her executrix of his will, it must 
surely be acknowledged, that two thousand pounds 



34} MEMOIRS OF THE 

was no such mighty sum to bring up an orphan, from 
seven years old, suitable to the most ardent wishes of 
his father, which, in every respect, his mother has 
fully accomplished. 

I think I cannot close the subject in debate more 
properly, than by applying to all intermedlers* in 
affairs which no ways concern them, a short essay of 
Mr. Maynwaring's in the Medley No. 33. 

Of Modesty and Justice. 

There is a law mentioned by Plato, which Jupi- 
ter is said to have enacted in his own name ; that if 
any man appeared plainly to be incapable of modesty 
or justice, he should immediately be knocked on the 
head as a common pestilence. The account Plato 
gives of it is as follows. 

He is describing the first state of human society ; 
how mankind built towns to defend themselves from 
beasts ; and how, in a more than brutal manner, they 
afterwards fell upon one another ; and at last, he 
says, Jupiter, justly fearing that the whole race of 
mankind would be destroyed, ordered Mercury to go 
to them, and to earry along with him modesty and 
justice, as the best support and ornament of their 
new built cities, and the firmest bond of their mutual 
friendship. Mercury upon this occasion asked Ju- 
piter, in what manner he should bestow justice and 
modesty upon mankind ; whether, said he, as the arts 

* It is hoped the coat will not sit to the shoulders of any gen- 
erous reader to this work; however, it is not to he doubted, 
bnt they have seen it fit many of their passing neighbors. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDF1ELD. %9 

are divided, shall I also divide these virtues, which 
are indeed of two kinds, and shall I give to some 
men one, to some the other, as we see by experience, 
that one skilful physician is sufficient for a great ma- 
ny of the ignorant, and so of other arts and profes- 
sions P or, shall I so divide them among the whole 
race of mankind, as that every single person may 
have a share in them ? divide them in that manner, 
says Jupiter, and let all mankind be partakers of 
them ; for if these virtues were only conveyed to a 
few, as the arts and sciences are given, it would be 
impossible for any cities to subsist ; therefore I would 
have you go farther, and establish a law in my name, 
that whoever cannot be made to partake of modesty 
and justice, shall he destroyed as a plague of the re- 
public. 

The application of this most excellent fable, is. 
that it would be much more commendable in all per- 
sons to have the modesty of leaving the administra- 
tion of justice to those to whom it peculiarly belongs, 
and to mind only their own business. 

To return to the stage. Before this time Mr. Bet- 
terton and Miss Barry had not only quitted the Thea- 
tre, but also the stage of life. I remember a passage 
in Mr. Henry Cromwell, Esq. that upon hearing of 
Mr. Betterton's death, he says, ?f he would have put 
over him this sentence of Tully for an epitaph.*' 

Vitce bene <Aeta>, jucundissima est Recordatio.* 

It being, I presume, in that gentleman's opinion 
an universal one for all players. 

* A life well acted is the best remembrance. 



36 MEMOIRS OF THE 

The next capital part, in which Miss Oldfield a- 
dorned the British Theatre, was in that beautiful 
transition from Hector's widow, to hecome a Queen 
of England. This was in Mr. Phillip's Tragedy of 
Humphry, Duke of Gloucester,* wherein she acted 
Margaret, Queen 'to King Henry VI. and spoke the 
following Epilogue. 

The business of an Epilogue, they say, 
Is to destroy the moral of the play ; 
To wipe the tears of virtue from your eyes ; 
And make you merry, — lest you should grow wise. 

Well! — you have heard a dismal tale I own : 
It almost, makes one dread — to lie, alone. 
Ruffians, and ghosts, and murder, and despair, 
May chase more pleasing visions from the fair. 
Wives can awake their husbands, in their fright : 
But, if poor damsels be disturb'd by night, 
How shall they (helpless creatures !) lay the spright ? 
Forget it all : — and Beaufort's crime forgive : 
Duke Humphry was — too good a man to live. 
And, yet — his merit rightly understood : 
We, now, have store of patriots, full as good ! 
Great souls, who, for their country's sake, would be content, 
Their spouses should be doom'd to banishment. 

Since Chronicles have drawn our Duke so tame; 
Is Eleanor, if she survives, to blame ? 
A widow knows the good, and bad, of life ; 
And has it in her choice to be, or not to be, a wife ! 
Virgins, impatient, cannot stay to choose ; 
They risque it all ; — not having much to lose ! — 
I mean, — such nymphs as sigh in rural shades, 
(No midnight Shepherdess, at Masquerades :) 

* Mr. Phillips wrote a tragedy, between this and the Distrest 
Mother, called the Briton, but Miss Oldfield had no part in it. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 37 

Or, such ill-fated maids, as pine in Grottoes, 
And, nev'er had th' experience of Ridottoes j 
Where, notwithstanding they their market smother, 
Some gain one trinket; aud some, lose another. 

These novelties with grief considerate women see ; 
For, should Italian modes prevail, pray what are we ? 
How oft do men our tender spirits vex, 
By telling us, we are a trifling sex ! 
Yet, — I am told, Philosophers maintain, 
Nature makes not the smallest thing in vain : 
And, let demurest prudes say, what they will, 



The reader, 1 presume, will easily perceive the 
reason of my mentioning the Distrest Mother, next 
to Phsedra and Hippolitus, as being both transplant- 
ed from Euripides; otherwise, according to the Chron- 
ology of the stage, Mr. Addison's Cato should have 
preceded all Mr. Phillips's Tragedies. I am also to 
acquaint the publick, that I have been desired, in the 
course of these memoirs, to insert the principal Pro- 
logues, which have been written by eminent hands, 
and spoken by Miss Oldfield ; digressions equally 
useful and entertaining. 

Miss Oldfield became so universally acceptable to 
the town, both in Comedy and Tragedy, that she was 
over-loaded with parts ; and, obliged to quit the less 
considerable ones, especially in some plays, where- 
in, by her appearance only, in speaking an Epilogue, 
she kept them alive a little while, but afterwards 
they were wholly laid aside. 

The plays of any consequence, in which Miss Old- 
field performed original capital parts, I shall mention 
,S4 



38 MEMOIRS OF THE 

as they came upon the stage ; but, the small ones, 
she aeted in modern plays, or those in which she suc- 
ceeded in old ones, I shall recite in an alphabetical 
list at the close of these memoirs. 

An agreeable incident having been communicated 
to me, I shall give it, just as it came to hand. 

Sir, 

" The late Miss Susannah Centlivre, who has o- 
bliged the town with the Gamester, the Busy Body, 
and several other entertaining Comedies, was so 
charmed with seeing Miss Oldfield play the part of 
Marcia in Cato, that she having, a little while before 
tbat Tragedy came on the stage, borrowed of Miss 
Oldfield, Fontenelle's Plurality of Worlds ; after 
reading it, returned the book with the underwritten 
verses, in a blank leaf thereof ; and as the compli- 
ment is genteel, and not fulsome, I hope it may not 
improperly be thought worthy of a place in Ophelia's 
memoirs. I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, &c. 
JOHN LUCAS. 

Whitehall, Nov. 18, 1730. 

Plurality of World's! sueli tilings may be, 
But I am best convinc'd by what I see. 
^< tho' Philosophers such schemes pursue, 

And fanej ' (1 worlds in ev?r y P lanet view ' 
They can bnt.g&S» at orbs above the skies ' 
And darkly paint the ipkm and hills that rise - 

Now Cupid, skili'd in mysteries profound, 
Points where more certainty of Worlds abound ; 
Bright Globes, that strike the gazer with surprise, 
For they are Worlds of Love, and in Ophelia's eyes. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 39 

Miss Oldfield having hitherto been partieularly 
considered but in two characters in Coinedy, viz. La- 
dy Lurewell, in the Trip to the Jubilee, and Lady 
Betty Modish, in the Careless Husband, I shall next 
consider the farther honour she has done Mr. Gib- 
ber, in some other of his performances. It was not 
only her voice and person that charmed the audience, 
but, as the Tatler* justly remarks, whatever char- 
acter she represented, " She was always well drest. 
The make of her mind very much contributed to the 
ornament of her body. This made every thing look 
native about her, and her clothes were so exactly 
fitted, that they appeared as it were part of her per- 
son. Her most elegant deportment was owing to her 
manner and not her habit. Her beauty was full of 
attraction, but more of allurement. There was such 
a composure in her looks, and propriety in her dress, 
that you would think it impossible she should change 
the garb you one day see her in, for any thing so becom- 
ing, till you next day see her in another. There was 
no other mystery in this, but that however she was ap- 
pareled, herself was the same. For there is so imme- 
diate a relation between our thoughts and gestures,that 
a woman must think well, to look well." This pic- 
ture of Flavia, as drawn by Mr. BickerstafP, is the 
vera effigies of the charming Ophelia. 

Miss Oldfield's other original parts in Mr. Gibber's 
plays, were — Mrs. Conquest, in The Lady's Last 
Stake ; or, the Wife's Resentment ; Lucinda, in 
The Rival Fools ; or. Wit at several Weapons, and 

•No. 213. Vol. IV. 



40 MEMOIRS OF THE 

Ximena, in The Heroic Daughter, the heroine of 
that Tragedy ; in which character she spoke the fol- 
lowing Epilogue : 

Well Sirs, 
I'm come to tell you, that my fears are over, 
I've seen Papa, and have secur'd my lover. 
And, troth, I'm wholly on our Author's side, 
For had, as Corneille made him, Gormaz dy'd, 
My part had ended as it first begun, 
And left me still unmarry'd and undone ; 
Or, what were harder far than both — a Nun. 
The French, for form indeed, postpones the wedding, 
But gives her hopes, within a year, of bedding. 
Time could not tie her marriage knot with honour ; 
The father's death still left the guilt upon her. 
The Frenchman stops her in that forc'd regard, 
The bolder Briton weds her in reward. 
He knew your taste would ne'er endure their billing 
Should be so long deferr'd, when both were willing ; 
Your formal Dons of Spain an age might wait, 
But English appetites are sharper set. 
'Tis true, this difference we indeed discover, 
That tho' like Lions you begin the lover, 
To do you right, your fury soon is over. 
Beside, the scene thus changld, this moral bears, 
That virtue never of relief despairs. 
But while true love is still in plays ill-fated, 
No wonder you gay sparks of pleasure hate it. 
Bloodshed discourages what should delight ye, 
And from a wife what little rubs will fright ye ? 
And virtue, not consider'd in the bride, 
How soon you yawn, and curse the knot you've ty'd ? 
How oft the Nymph, whose pitying eyes give quarter, 
Finds, in her captive, she has caught a Tartar ? 
"While to her spouse, who once so high did rate her, 
She kindly gives ten thousand pounds to hate her. 



LIFE OP MISS OLDFIELD, ' 41 

So, on the other side, some sighing swain, 

That ianguishes in love whole years in vain, 

Impatient for the feast, resolves he'll have her, 

And, in his anger, vows he'll eat forever ; 

He thinks of nothiug but the honey-moon, 

But little thought he could have din'd so soon. 

Is not this true ? speak dearies of the pit, 

Don't you find too, how horribly you're bit ? 

For the instruction therefore of the free, 

Our author turns his just catastrophe : 

Before you wed, let love be understood, 

Refine your thoughts, and chace it from the blood ; 

Nor can you then of lasting joy despair; 

For when that circle holds the British fair, 

Your hearts may fiud heroic daughters there. 

Sir Riehard Steele had the honor of Mrs. Old- 
field's performing original parts in all his plays, viz. 
Lady Charlotte in the Funeral ; the Niece, in the 
Tender Husband ; Victoria, in the Lying Lover ; 
Indiana, in the Conscious Lovers, 

To divert an audience, by an innocent perform- 
ance, was the chief design of the last comedy, who 
are thus addressed in the close of the Prologue. 

Ye modest wise and good, ye fair, ye brave, 
To night the champion of your virtues save ; 
Redeem from long contempt the comic name, 
And judge politely for your country's fame. 

There happened a very remarkable incident in the 
representation of the Conscious Lovers, which Sir 
Richard takes particular notice of in his preface, and 
I shall give it in his own words. 

" This comedy was in every part excellently per- 
formed ; and there needs no other applause of the actors^ 



IC MEMOIRS OF THE 

but that they excelled according to the dignity and 
difficulty of the character they represented : — The 
tears which were shed on this occasion, flowed from 
reason and good sense, and men ought not to be laugh- 
ed at for weeping, till we are come to a more clear 
notion of what is to be imputed to the hardness of 
the head and the softness of the heart ; and I think 
it was very politely said of Mr. Wilks, to one who 
told him there was a * General weeping for Indi- 
ana f Vll warrant he'll fight ne'er the worse for 

that. To be apt to give way to the impressions of 
humanity, is the excellence of a right disposition, and 
the natural working of a well turned spirit. The fol- 
lowing song was designed for the entertainment of 
Indiana, but omitted for want of a performer ; it ex- 
presses the distress of a love-sick maid, and may be 
a fit entertainment for some small critics to examine 
whether the passion is just, or the distress male or 
female. 

From plaee to place forlorn I go, 

With down cast eyes a silent shade ; 
Forbidden to declare my woe; 

To speak, till spoken to, afraid. 
My inward pangs my secret grief, 

My soft consenting looks betray ; 
He loves, but gives me no relief: 

Why speaks not he who, may ? 

Among the many apologies for the stage, Miss 
Oldfield always preferred that humorous one given 
by Mr. Farquhar, in his discourse upon comedy. 
* The honorable Brigadier General Charles Churchill 
f kiss Old field's part. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 4:3 

<• Poetry alone, and chiefly the drama, lies open to 
the insults of all pretenders ; she was one of nature's 
eldest offsprings, whence by her birthright, and plain 
simplicity, she plead a genuine likeness to her moth- 
er. Born in the innocence of time, she provided not 
against the assaults of succeeding ages ; and, de- 
pending altogether on the generous end of her inven- 
tion, neglected those secret supports and serpentine 
devices used by other arts, that wind themselves into 
practice for more subtile and politic designs : naked 
she came into the world, and it is to be feared, like 
its professors, will go naked out/ 7 

I have often heard Miss Oldfield mention the ma- 
ny agreeable hours she had spent in Mr. Farquhar's 
company. The original parts she had in his plays, 
were only two ; Silvia in the Recruiting Officer? 
and Mrs. Sullen in the Stratagem; most of his com- 
edies being written before Miss Oldfield's coming on 
the stage ; and in the old parts, as already observed, 
she succeeded Mrs. Verbruggen, whose maiden name 
was Percival, and afterwards Mountfort. 

Of this gentlewoman, I am naturally led into the 
relation of one melancholy scene of her life, in which 
I believe no parallel can be found either in ancient 
or modern history. Her father Mr. Percival had 
the misfortune to be drawn into the assassination plot 
against king William ; for this he lay under sen- 
tence of death, which he received on the same night 
that Lord Mohun killed her husband Mr. Mountfort. 

Under this, almost insuperable, affliction, she was 
introduced to the good Queen Mary, who being, as 



44 MEMOIRS OF THE 

she was pleased to say, struck to the heart upon re- 
ceiving Mrs. Mountfort's petition, immediately 
granted all that was in her power, a remission of her 
father's execution for that of transportation. But 
fate had so ordered it, that poor Mrs. Mountfort was 
to lose both father and husband. For as Mr. Per- 
eival was going abroad, he was so weakened by his 
imprisonment, that he was taken sick on the road, 
and died at Portsmouth. 

The* fatality which happens to the shedders of 
blood, I have always remarked as a certain effect of 
the divine vengeance ; and therefore all gentlemen 
who are apt to draw their swords upon the most triv- 
ial occasions, would do well to consider two or three 
accidents I shall here lay before them. 

1. That they would please to remember Lord Mo- 
hun's catastrophe ; who, as Mr. Mountfort fell by 
his hands, he fell in the duel between him and 
Duke Hamilton, himself sending the challenge. 

2. At a representation of the Scornful Lady some 
years ago, for the benefit of Miss Oldfield, many per- 
sons of distinction were behind the scenes. Among 
others Beau Fielding came, and being always migh- 
ty ambitious of shewing his fine make and shape, as 
himself used vainly to talk, he very closely pressed 
forward upon some gentlemen, but in particular upon 
Mr. Fulwood, a Barrister of Gray's Inu, an acquaint- 
ance of Miss Oldfield. Mr. Fulwood being a gen- 
tleman of quick resentment, told Fielding he used 
him rudely ; upon which, he laid his hand upon his 
sword, but Mr. Fulwood instantly drew and gave 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 45 

Fielding a wound of twelve inches deep in the belly. 
This putting the audience into the greatest conster- 
nation, Mr. Fulwood was with much intreaty per- 
suaded to leave the place. At length, out of respect 
to Miss Oldfield he did so, and went to the Theatre 
in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where the same evening the 
Libertine was acted. Mr. Fulwood went into the 
Pit, and in a very few minutes cast his eye upon 
one Captain Cusack, to whom he had an old grudge, 
and there demanded satisfaction of him. Captain 
Cusack without the least hesitation obeyed the sum- 
mons. They went into the field, and in less than 
half an hour, word was brought into the house, that 
Mr. Fulwood was killed on the spot, and Captain 
Cusaek had made his escape. 

3. The last instance I shall produce is in the case 
of the late Lord Chief Justice Pine, of Ireland, who, 
when he was a student of Lincoln's-Inn, in those 
walks, killed the eldest son of one of the finest gen- 
tlemen in England, I beg to be excused from naming 
him, because he was my near relation. However, the 
weight of blood hung so heavy upon Mr. Pine, that 
he declared, he could not live in England, and went 
over to Ireland, in which kingdom indeed he made 
his fortune ; but an over-ruling power dampt all his 
joys, even to the day of his death, because the price 
of blood was repaid in his own family, his eldest son 
being killed in a duel in Ireland. 

As these accidental digressions will not be without 
their use, I hope they will not be judged in this 
25 



46 MEMOIRS OF THE 

place impertinent, our Theatres being too often the 
scene of actions of this kind. 

But let us now again resume the pleasiug enter- 
tainment given by Miss Oldfield. To Mr. Howe's 
excellent Tragedy of Jane Shore, she spoke the fol- 
lowing Epilogue, and how she charmed throughout 
the whole play, every spectator must remember ! 

Epilogue to Jane Shore. 

YE modest matrons all, ye virtuous \wves, 
Who lead with horrid husbands decent lives ; 
You, who for all you are in such a taking, 
To see your spouses drinking, gaming, raking, 
Yet make a conscience still of cuckold-making, 
"What can we say your pardon to obtain ; 
This matter here was pro\ 'd against poor Jane : 
She never once deny'd it, but in short, 
Whimper'd — and — cry'd — sweet sir, I'm sorry for't. 
'Twas well he met a kind, good-natur'd soul ; 
• We are not all so easy to controul. 
I fancy one might find in this good town 
Some w*bu'd ha' told the gentleman his own ; 
Have answer'd smart — to what do you pretend, 
Blockhead — as if I mustn't see a friend : 
Tell me of hackney-coaches— jaunts to tli* city — 
Where should I buy my china ?— faith, FU ft ye — 
Our wife was of a milder, meeker spirit ; 
You ! — lords and masters ! — was not that some merit ? 
Well, peace be with her, she did wrong most surely j 
But so do many more that look demurely. 
Nor shou'd our mourning madam weep alone, 
There are more ways of wickedness than one. 
If the reforming stage shou'd fall to shaming, 
Ill-nature, pride, hypocrisy, and gaming ; 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 4?7 

The poets frequently might move compassion. 
And with She Tragedies o'er run the nation. 
Then judge the/«ir offender with good nature, 
And let your fellow-feeling curb your satire. 
What if our neighbours have some little failing, 
Must we needs fall to damning and to railing ? 
For her excuse too, be it understood, 
That if the woman was not quite so good, 
Her lover was a king, she fiesh and blood. 
And since she's dearly paid the sinful score, 
Be kind at last, and pity poor Jane Shore. 

Some particulars having been communicated to 
me, relating to Miss Oldfield's coming upon the 
stage, by Mr. Taylor, formerly a servant to Mr. 
Rich, I could wish they had been sooner transmit- 
ted ; but as the intentions of the writer must be ac- 
knowledged an act of friendship, I hope the contents 
of his letter will be agreeable to the public, for 
whose use it is inserted. 

To Mr. Cuvll,8£c. 

Sir, 
ec In your memoirs of Miss Oldfield it may not be 
amiss to insert the following facts, the truth of which 
you may depend. Her father, Capt. Oldfield, not 
only run out all the military, but likewise the pater- 
nal bounds of his fortune, having a pretty estate in 
houses in Pali-Mall. It was wholly owing to Capt. 
Farquhar, that ever Miss Oldfield became an actress, 
from the following incident. Dining one day at her 
aunt's, who kept the Mitred Tavern in St. James's 
Market, he heard Miss Nanny reading a play be- 
hind the bar with so proper an emphasis, and such 



4jS memoirs of the 

agreeable turns suitable to each character, that he 
swore the girl was cut out for the stage ; to which 
she had before always expressed an inclination, be- 
ing very desirous to try her fortune that way. Her 
mother, the next time she saw Capt. Vanbrugh, who 
had a great respect for the family, told him what was 
Capt. Farquhar's advice ; upon which he desired to 
know whether, in the plays she read, her fancy was 
most pleased with tragedy or comedy. Miss being 
called in, said, comedy 5 she having at that time gone 
through all Beaumont and Fleteher's comedies ; and 
the play she was reading when captain Farquhar din- 
ed there, was, the Scornful Lady. Captain Van- 
brugh shortly recommended her to Mr. Christopher 
Rich, who took her in the house, at the allowance but 
of fifteen shillings per week. However, her agreea- 
ble figure, and the sweetness of her voice, soon gave 
her the preference, in the opinion of the whole town, 
to all our young actresses ; and his Grace the late 
Duke of Bedford, being pleased to speak to Mr. Rich 
in her favor, he instantly raised her allowance to 
twenty shillings per week. Her fame and salary, at 
length, rose to her just merit. 

Your humble servant, 

Charles Taylor. 

Nov. 25, 1730. 

Having already mentioned Miss Campion's good 
fortune, in being honored with the friendship of the 
Duke of Devonshire, I am here to observe, that a very 
short time put a period to her happiness. 

Paying some visits, last summer, to my friends in 



LIFE OF MISS GLDFIELD. 49 

Buckinghamshire, as the monuments of the dead 
never escape my notice, in Latimer's church in that 
county, I found Miss Campion was buried. She 
was taken off in her bloom, by a hectic-fever, under 
which she languished four months, being but nine- 
teen years of age. Her endowments, both of mind 
and body, are very elegantly delineated in the fol. 
lowing inscription, upon a very neat marble tabla- 
ture, erected to her memory in the church abovemen- 
tioned, by his Grace William Duke of Devonshire. 

Requiescit Hie 

Pars mortalis Mariae Annse Campion. 

Obiit 19 Maij. Anno M.DCC.VI. iEtat. 19. 

Quod superest ex altera parte qusere. 

Formam Egregiam et miris illecebras ornatam. 

Virtutes Animi superarunt. 

Plebeium genus (sed honestum) 

Nobilitate morum decoravit, 

Supra ratatem Sagax, 

Supra Sortem (prsesertim egenis) benigna. 

Inter scenicos ludos (in quibus aliquandiu versata est) 

Verecunda et intemerata : 

Post quatuor mensium languorem 

(a Febri Hectica correptum) 

Intempestivam mortem 

Forti pectore et Christiana Pietate subivijt) 

Hnmanitate prseditis 

(Si quid mentem mortalia tangunt) 

Flebilis ; 

i, Amicis lieu flebilior ! 

Dilectissimis Reliquiis Sacrum, 



50 MEMOIRS OF THE 

Lapidem lumc poni curavit 
*G. D. D. 
TJie foregoing inscription has been thus attempted 
in English. 

Mahy Anne Campion, 

Died on the 19th day of May, 1706 ? 

in the 19th year of her age. 

Resting in peace, her mortal part here lies j 
But, her immortal soul assumes the skies. 
Her lovely form with ev'ry graee conjoin'd, 
Illustrated the virtues of her mind. 
Though meanly born, her morals were sincere, 
And such, as the most noble blood might wear. 
Her wisdom far above her years did show ; 
Above her fortune did her bounty flow. 
Some years the stage her sprightly action grae'd, 
Most others, in her conduct, she surpass'd. 
Four months a ling'ring fever's wasting pains 
Her breast with christian fortitude sustains. 
Her immature decease soft hearts bewail, 
Relentless grief her loving friends assail. 
Sacred to her most dear remains, be't known, 
His Grace of Devon consecrates this stone. 

The Gentleman who favoured me with the trans- 
lation of Miss Campion's inscription, assures me, 
that in the blank leaf of her Common Prayer Book, 
given her by the Duke of Devonshire, were written 
the following twelve remarkable verses, from Mr. 
Dryden's Conquest of Granada ; which it seems his 
Grace recommended to her as a plan of natural relig- 
ion, and of his own belief in such matters. 

* Guliemus Devonise Dux. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 51 

By reason man a G&dhead may discern ; 

But hoiv he should be worshipped cannot learn. 

O Heav'n how dark a riddle's thy decree, 

Which bounds our wills, but seems to leave 'em free ? 

Since thy fore-knowledge cannot be in vain, 

Our choice must be what thou didst first ordain. 

Thus like a captive in an isle coufiu'd, 

Man walks at large, a prisoner of the mind i 

Wills all his crimes, while Heav'n th' indictment draws, 

And pleading guilty justifies the laws. 

None knows what fate is for himself design'd, 

The thought of human chance should make us kind.* 

His Grace of Devonshire did not long survive Miss 
Campion, dying in about a year after lier. This a- 
mour, and the Duke's political character, drew upon 
Dr. White Kennet, late Bishop of Peterborough, some 
very severe reflections, on account of the sermon he 
preached at his funeral in the Church of Allhallows, 
in Derby, Sept. 5, 1707. I shall not load these pa- 
pers with a recital of what has been said pro and 
con, by Pamphleteers, but content myself, and I hope 
the reader, in giving a short state of the case, as it is 
very handsomely drawn up, with regard to the mem- 
ories both of the spiritual and temporal Peer, by the 
writer of Bishop Rennet's life. 

t" A growing set of people, were disposed to dis- 
like every thing he wrote or did ; for the times were 
now come, when parties judged of actions and writ- 
ings, not by the merit of the performances, but by 

* The reader will not let the sublime principle which this fasf 
line inculcates, escape his reflection. 

tSee Bishop Rennet's Life, Svo. 1730, p. 35, and seq. 



52 Memoirs of the 

the affection or prejudice they bore to the name of 
the authors of them. He was now stamped for a 
Whig writer ; which was as bad as the being a Re- 
publican, and a Presbyterian ; and that was worse, 
than the being a Papist. Many of our best Prelates 
and Divines have suffered under the same prejudices 
of malice and ignorance. When their political writ- 
ings have offended, then the party ran down all their 
other performances whatsoever. When once angry, 
they catch at new causes, and fresher pretences of 
being more angry ; like children, and other people 
of no command upon themselves, they are scratching 
of a new wound, because of an itching in the old sore." 
It was under this disadvantage that Dr. Kennet 
was called to preach a funeral sermon for the Duke 
of Devonshire, from which he excused himself, as a 
stranger to that noble family, and till then utterly 
unknown to them. But it appeared that a Reverend 
Prelate had recommended him to that duty, and had 
undertaken to give him such instructions, as might 
enable him to speak with truth and proper observa- 
tions of that great man. Upon this encouragement, 
he complied with the importunate request, and upon 
a short warning, amidst the necessity of asking many 
questions, and making many visits, he drew up a se- 
rious sermon, and attended the very solemn funeral 
to Derby, delivering the sermon before a very full 
audience of the neighbouring gentry, who could best 
judge of the character given of that noble Peer ; and 
in the same evening, one of them at the table, in the 
name of the rest, thanked the preacher, and told him 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 53 

that they, in that county, had been witnesses of the 
truth of the most material things he had so well spok- 
en of the late Duke. And it was by their report, 
and the concurrent testimony of that part of the fami- 
ly that attended those obsequies, that his late Grace 
the Duke of Devonshire, a Peer of great prudence 
and probity, generously approved of that last office, 
and desired the Doetor to publish the sermon ; to 
which he submitted with the less fear of offence, be- 
cause all he said relating to his life was either sug- 
gested or allowed by the then Bishop of Sarum, who 
was intimately acquainted with his Grace's conduct ; 
and all that he observed concerning his sickness and 
death, was communicated to him by the eye witness 
and faithful judge of them, the then Lord Bishop of 
Ely. Upon their authority, and approbation, the 
Doetor published his sermon, and confirmed the main 
subject of it, by casting in some historical collections 
relating to the descent and progress of that noble 
family ; to which he made a modest Dedication to 
the late Duke; which he (who would have despised 
flattery, and abhorred falsehood) was so well pleased 
with, that he had a respect and favour for the Doc- 
tor, and showed it in a very kind manner, by recom- 
mending him to the Queen for the Deanery of Peter- 
borough, soon after vacant by the death of Dr. Free- 
man, which we may suppose was the more easily ob- 
tained of her Majesty, as being her Chaplain in or- 
dinary, by the recommendation of the Lord Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, and the Earl of Godolphin. 
This preferment, though not so much to be envied, 
raised the fiercer spite and malice of the party against 
26 



54 . MEMOIRS 01' THE 

him. Libels and peevish sermons pointed at him. 
They got young men to tune the Oxford Pulpit, and 
let out their University Press to the Printing, or re- 
printing, a sorry libel* of poor John Dunton's, against 
the deceased Duke and his funeral preacher. Some 
said that he had covered all the vices of that great 
man, which was so far from being true, that he plain- 
ly intimated them. " That this was the true bottom 
of all the clamour against Dean Kennet, both then 
and afterwards, is evident from the many violent 
pamphlets and libels published against him. 7 ' And, 
it is merely to show the inveteracy of prejudice on all 
occasions, and of party malice in some, that the read- 
er has been troubled with this digression ; but, with 
candid minds it will have its due weight and use. 
For as to the Dean's palliating all the Duke's vices ? 
thereby insinuating, that he was privy to his Grace's 
amour with Miss Campion, and also that he was the 
author of her monumental inscription ; i( These cal- 
umnies he was so little concerned in, that he has of- 
ten said, he had never before heard of them." The 
intrigue he was wholly a stranger to, and as to the 
inscription, it is well known to be the performance of 
his Grace's own elegant pen. 

Mrs. Manley tells us, in her life, that the Duch- 
ess of Cleveland's favourite, and the only man she 
loved, was Mr. Goodman the player ; though she 
had the power of captivating Princes. And though 
as Sir Samuel Garth sings, t the stage is a spot, 

* The Hazard of a Death-Bed Repentance, 
t See Dispensary, a Poem. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 53 

Where purple Emperors in busldus tread, 
And rule imaginary worlds fur bread. 

Yet, many are the instances of real monarchs, and 
persons of the first distinction, who have felt the 
power of beauty from the stage, and fallen willing 
victims to a theatrical Venus. 

Among the other dramatical memoirs, herein re- 
cited, Mr. Wycherley having been mentioned on ac- 
count of his most excellent writings ; I think myself, 
in justice to his memory (as well as to the gentle- 
man* who married his widow) to set the affair of his 
marrying, just at the eve of his death, as Major Pack 
well expresses it, in a true light. 

It must be acknowledged that poor Mr. Wycher- 
ley was incapable, as he told the lady, of rendering 
her due benevolence ; but he was very unwilling to 
be rendered incapable of paying his debts, through 
his nephew's ungenerous treatment of him, when he 
knew what was in his power ; so that it must em- 
balm his memory, with the greatest honor, when it is 
known, that justice was the only motive of his chang- 
ing his condition. 

We shall conclude this article with some circum- 
stances of the last act of Mr. Wycherley's life, as re- 
lated by Mr. Pope.f " He had often told me, as I 
doubt not he did all his acquaintance, that he would 
marry as soon as his life was despaired of. Aecord- 
ly, a few days before his death he underwent the cer- 
emony; and joined together those two sacraments, 

* Capt. Shrhnpton. 
* Sea a htter to Mr. Blount of Jan. 21, 1715—16. 



56 



MEMOIRS OF THE 



which wise men say, should be the last we receive ; 
for if you observe, matrimony is placed after extreme 
unction in our catechism, as a kind of hint of the or- 
der of time in which they ought to be taken. The 
old man then lay down, satisfied in the conscience of 
having by this one act paid his just debts, obliged a 
woman who, he was told, had merit, and shewn an 
heroic resentment of the ill usage of his next heir. 
Some hundred pounds which he had with the lady, 
discharged those debts ; a jointure of 400Z. a year 
made her a recompence \ and his nephew he left to 
comfort himself as well as he could, with the misera- 
ble remains of a mortgaged estate. I saw our frieud 
twice after this was done, less pevish in his sickness 
than he used to be in his health : neither much afraid 
of dying, nor (which in him had been more likely) 
much ashamed of marrying. The evening before he 
expired, he called his young wife to his bed side, 
and earnestly entreated her not to deny him oue re- 
quest, the last he should make. Upon her assurance 
of consenting to it, he told her, my dear it is only this, 
that you will never marry an old man again. I can- 
not help remarking, that sickness, which often de- 
stroys both wit and wisdom, yet seldom has power to 
remove that talent which we call humor ; Mr. Wy- 
cherley shewed his even in this last compliment ; 
though I think his request a little hard, for why 
should he bar her from doubling her jointure on the 
same easy terms ?" But Mr. Pope should have ob- 
served, that the lady doubled her fortune much bet- 
ter, by marrying a young gentleman whose commis- 
sion was more than equivalent to her jointure. 



LIFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 5/ 

The case of Mr. Shrimpton, Mr. Wycherly's Ex- 
ecutor, and the unjust litigous usage he met with is, 
I think, a sufficient memento for all persons whatever, 
who have any effects to leave behind them, how pru- 
dently circumspect they ought to be in settling their 
affairs before their decease. Though notwithstanding 
all the care and caution imaginable, where there is a 
fellow, who wears, a Corinthian forehead, sueh a one 
as Captain Shrimpton had to do with, a man of hon- 
or will find it very difficult to get out of his clutches. 
Mr. Otway, in his tragedy of Venice Preserved has 
described the misery of a man, w r hose effects are in 
the hands of the law, with great spirit. The bitter- 
ness of being the scorn and laughter of base minds, 
the anguish of being insulted by men hardened be- 
yond the sense of shame or pity, and the injury of a 
man's fortune being wasted, under pretence of justice, 
are excellently aggravated in the following speech of 
Pierre to Jaffeir. 

I pass'd this very moment by thy doors, 
And found them guarded by a troop of villains : ' 

The sons of public rapine were destroying. 
They told me by the sentence of the law, 
They had commission to seize all thy fortune.. 
Here, stood a Ruffian with a horrid face, 
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate, 
Tumbled into a heap for public sale. 
There, was another, making villainous jests 
At thy undoing ; he had ta'en possession 
Of all thy ancient most domestic ornaments ; 
Rieh hangings, intermix'd and wrought with gold ," 
The very bed, which on thy wedding night 
Received thee to the arms of Belvidera ! 



58 MEMOIRS OF THE 

The scene of all thy joys, was violated 

By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains 

And thrown amongst the common lumber. 

I shall put an end to this last complaint, by ac- 
quainting the reader, that the Lord Chancellor Mac- 
clesfield was pleased to make a decree in favour of 
Captain Shrimpton. 

"We now come to the last original part of Miss 
Oldfield. James Thompson, an ingenious Scotch 
gentleman, (author of the Seasons) in the Preface to 
his Tragedy of Sophonisba, thus delivers himself: 
"I cannot conclude without owning my obligations 
to those concerned in the representation. They have 
indeed done me more than justice. Whatever was 
designed as amiable and engaging in Massinissa, 
shines out in Mr. Wilks's action. Miss Oldfield, 
in the character of Sophonisba, has excelled what, 
even in the fondness of an author, I could either 
wish or imagine. The grace, dignity, and happy 
variety of her action, have been universally applaud- 
ed, and are truly admirable." 

Sophonisba was the last original character in which 
she appeared on the stage. But, the last time of her 
performance was on Tuesday, the 88th day of April, 
1730, when Sir John Vanbrugh's excellent Comedy, 
The Provoked Wife, was acted for the benefit of 
Mr. Charke, wherein she acted the part of Lady 
Brute. 

Upon the very approach of her last illness, she 
most earnestly requested her Physicians not to flatter 
her, but to give her their opinions freely, what they 



LIFE OF MISS OUDPIELD. 59 

thought of her case. And when they told her, they 
feared the fatality of it, she replied, without the least 
shock or emotion, she acquiesced in the lot Provi- 
dence had assigned her ; and hoped she should bear 
her afflictions patiently. 

Having this previous notice of her change, she set 
her house in order, and made such an equitable dis- 
tribution of her estate, as is in every respect highly 
commendable. 

Miss Oldfield was at length released from her 
earthly bonds, expiring very early on Friday morn- 
ing, October S3, 1730. 

The following Epitaph is supposed to come from 
the hand of a certain gentleman well known at West- 
minster : 

IIlc Jacet (citojaeet hie) Oldfield, 
The brightest actress Britain e'er did yield. 
In parts diverting her chief talent lay, 
Wherein a thousand charms she did display. 
Would every one in this degen'rate age, 
Whilst acting here a part on life's short stage, 
Like her exert, pursuing nature's laws, 
They'd meet at their last Exit like applause. 

As to the variety of Miss Oldfield* s amours, "sucb; 
infamous reports arise, from her being more lovely 
than the rest of her sex, she was envied by such ma- 
licious wretches ; but all who knew her will confirm 
this truth, that, she was never guilty of any base or 
ungenerous action." 

Such is the character I have had communicated to 
me by a gentlewoman whose veracity is unquestiona- 



60 LTFE OF MISS OLDFIELD. 






A 



ble ; and whom, I am not ashamed to own, I have 
with great satisfaction consulted upon the present oc- 
casion. She thus farther proceeds. 

" Miss Oldfield, like a prudent and just parent, 
has equitably divided her estate between her two 
sons, and only children Maynwaring and Churchill ; 
for was I brought on my oath, I would swear she 
had no other ; and as to love affairs, I do assure you, 
I know of none, but with the fathers of the gentlemen 
here mentioned. As to the cause of her death, it 
cannot fall within the bounds of censure ; for the 
surgeons when she was opened, made no other re- 
port, than what had been reported by the physicians ; 
and it was a malady known by every body to be in- 
cident to our sex, although we were vestals. These 
are all the particulars I can relate either of Miss 
Oldfield's public or private behavior. I have thrown 
in my mite toward her vindication, though the occa- 
sion for it gives me a great deal of uneasiness ; but 
they who cannot serve a friend without a view of in- 
terest, ought to be despised."* 

* A sentiment worth dwelling on. 



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